


Other Side of The Moon

by love_in_mind_palace (mysleepyhead)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-06-17 16:19:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15465318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysleepyhead/pseuds/love_in_mind_palace
Summary: After the fall Sherlock goes away to dismantle Moriarty’s network while living through different identities and hiding. But then something unexpected starts to happen. After a while of everything going according to plan, he’s suddenly just too late everywhere. Because someone was there before him, and took care of everything. It takes him a while. But then he realises. It’s John. Avenging his death.





	1. Don’t stand so close to me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fellshish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/gifts).



> I can never get enough of reichenbach fix its. Thats why [this](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com/post/171759611981/new-headcanon-after-the-fall-when-sherlock-goes) prompt from [@fellshish](https://fellshish.tumblr.com/) made me write this. I hope it is not too bad. Updates will be weekly. If you know my posting schedule, you must know that I rarely miss an update.  
> Hope you enjoy. Especially @fellshish, I hope you are satisfied.

The other side of the moon, or as known in popular culture as the dark side of the moon, is just the other side people can’t see from earth. By the works of mysterious universal powers, the speed at which the moon rotates its own axis, and the speed at which it rotates the earth, synchronises so perfectly that the earth had no idea for the longest time about what was on the other side of the moon. It’s not like it was missing something. The moon was still there with the borrowed silver lights and its craters and less amount of gravity. But earth still didn’t know all about it. Although the relationship goes way back. Thousands of years ago when all of it started.

People can live with someone and be in synchronisation for the whole time and they can be friends, spouses, acquaintances, colleagues, more than friends, and still there are things they might not know. Things that we might not be told. Secrets that might be kept. It doesn't matter who that person is. Sometimes everyone might not be part of everything in everyone’s life. There can be valid reasons behind them, sometimes there aren’t.

Did the earth ever feel betrayed because the moon hid the truth? No one knows.

But what about a human being? Certainly more emotions come into the equation because humans are humans. A messy creation.

* * *

 

 

Surprisingly, his hand doesn’t shake. And his vision doesn't go blurry. Sherlock doesn’t know what that says about his nerves. Is he too courageous? Or too scared out of his mind?

**Lazarus is go.**

He types with utmost concentration.

 

**Are you absolutely sure? There is no looking back from this.**

 

**You questioning me back was not part of the plan. It is go. Don’t waste time.**

 

**Consider it done, brother mine.**

 

He closes his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable.

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” 

It’s not really easy to distinguish a broken whisper from the chatter. The necessary chatter all around, irritating. But of course like everything it serves a purpose. It’s there to make the scene as real as possible. To let it seem as if everyone is shocked. Everyone is horrified beyond their limits because a human body was laying on the ground. With his skull cracked, blood splatters everywhere. Blood flowing free on the pavement, under his shoes, over the cold, hard stone.  

Because a human body just jumped from the rooftop of a four storied building in front of a dozen pairs of human eyes. It's not supposed to be a pretty sight.

Actually, only one pair of eyes. The rest knows that he clearly didn’t jump. That all of it was fake, an elaborate farce to make a lie the truth, as exactly as he said before jumping. It’s all a lie.

It’s so easy to pretend. It’s so easy to know and still act as if surprised.

But is it really? Didn’t he learn this lesson already? Or he thought he did. 

The gasps are clearer now. Because now it’s easy to separate them from the fake ones around him. This one is full of pain. As if someone was dying. As if the body lying dead on the ground was more alive than the owner of that voice.

The hand on his shoulder warns him that he is supposed to be a lifeless body right now. Because the only person whom he needed to pretend in front of is there.

As if he doesn’t know John is there. As if he doesn’t know how John breathes. How John walks. How his footsteps sound when Sherlock touches his ear flat to the floor. Yes, he has done that countless times. John doesn’t know. He never will, obviously. He always told himself that it was just a part of his usual John related experiments. Cataloguing John and everything about John.

As if John wasn’t already in his mind more than necessary. More than he would prefer. But less than he would like. He would like John to consume every vein, every molecule and the flesh of his body. He really would. But that’s not possible anymore. 

“I’m a doctor, let me come through. Let me come through, please.” 

Pain and pain and so much pain. Sherlock considers that it would be very convenient if he could go deaf at will.

The words are coming out with a struggle. And Sherlock realises he didn’t really think this through enough. He did not think enough about the consequences and the impact on John. Because the case was priority at that moment. His death was priority. And now he has broken John, might have killed him as well. 

Why does he never think of that? He never thinks about what will happen after. It’s always living in the present for him. It must be a huge character flaw. Nobody ever told him that it’s a flaw. Why didn’t John ever tell him anything?

And it gets so hard to not sit up. To not tear away the farce and tell John that he isn’t what he seems like. That he is alive. That it’s not easy. That it’s never been easy to pretend. And now it’s too hard. 

He didn’t want this, did he? He didn’t, certainly.

He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to sit in the kitchen and keep an eye on the microscope and feel John all around the flat. He didn’t want to leave 221b and everything and everyone that makes it home. The dust on the mantelpiece. Or the forgotten petri dishes under the sink which were never really forgotten. 

Or the smell of the mothballs from John’s jumpers. And the toast heating in the kitchen. He never bothered with breakfast. But he liked the smell. Loved it, actually. It was an essential part of his existence. 

He would buy milk for the next decade. He would even try to keep the flat clean. To be back there again. To walk on the carpet barefoot and watch John get ready and come down the stairs and scold him again for the state of the kitchen, saying how he can’t tolerate it anymore. He would try to concentrate on the texture of the carpet under his feet so that he doesn’t do anything to startle John.

He could watch John coming down the stairs for another hundred years and he would not demand anything more than that.

He didn’t want to leave John. Ever. If it was convenient, he would never have unlocked the handcuffs from last night.

Will John understand that? Will John ever know that? Would it be best if he actually left a note? Instead of half killing himself and John with that phone call?

Or maybe it is indeed better like this. What John doesn't know can't hurt him. Isn't that the popular phrase? 

Actually, it is for John’s safety. The less he knows, the less of a target he becomes. It doesn’t matter how well John can keep a secret. Because over everything, the only thing that matters is that John cares for him. 

Sherlock cannot compare how much that care matches with his own kind. But it is there. And sentiment makes people weak. And that’s why he needed to die, so that the snipers shot is removed from John. It doesn’t matter that Moran saw him alive. The only thing that is paramount is that John can’t know. That John will be safe.

Sherlock doesn’t even want to acknowledge how much he is arguing with himself. It’s a common psychological occurrence. People try to back up their own mistakes with every little argument they can find. Because mistakes and wrong decisions make you weak. And no one wants to be weak, not even to the sanctuary of their own brain. The human mind has too many manufacturing defects.

Love makes ordinary people vulnerable. How much a fool was he to consider himself extraordinary.

It’s an awful sound. The fake chatter around him. And it shows no sign of stopping.  He needs everyone to shut up. He needs everyone to stop acting for a moment so that he can think clearly.

There are familiar footsteps. All wrong and miscalculated now. Everything is so wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“No, he’s my friend. He’s my friend. Please.”

He can't remember if he’s ever heard John like this. It doesn’t even sound like John. It sounds like a hollow, broken shell echoing sounds inside it. John doesn't sound like a human at all.

What has he done? Mycroft had asked him over and over if he was sure. If he was absolutely sure. He thought he was. 

And then a hand touches his pulse, his seemingly unbeating pulse. Fingers that never touched him unless absolutely necessary. Touch that he never felt, touch that was a dream. 

It is touching him now. John’s fingers trying frantically to search for a sign of him being alive.

The ball under Sherlock’s armpit is making sure that John will not find one. Just a magic trick.

And then it goes away. Before Sherlock can even decide if touching him back would be a good idea, if dead bodies could touch the living back but another pair of hands tugs John’s adamant hand away. Taking away the last opportunity to touch him for who knows how many years. Maybe forever.

It’s not fair. None of it is.

He never wanted John’s fingers on his pulse point to be the only kind of touch ever, let alone the last one. There was a lot he wanted and even gave himself permission to think about and all of them are meaningless now. Lost in circumstances, decisions and a fake death. All his fault. Bad timing everywhere.

The phantom touch still lingers after John isn’t even touching him anymore. But he can still hear his pained breath.

Was he just a friend to John? Was John just a friend to him? 

The question isn’t new. And the question has a tendency to appear at the most inappropriate places, at the most inappropriate times. Like when on a seemingly quiet evening, John came back from the grocery store and flopped onto his chair and Sherlock silently turned the tea kettle on and thought about their relationship. Would John want or mind for something more? Would he himself hate if there was more than just that? But he didn't ask about it. He always handed John his tea silently and went back to think about whatever he needed to distract himself from John related thoughts. 

He had thought about it a lot. Between examining blood stains on a torn piece of  carpet and watching dust particles under the microscope. When John, being absolutely unaware of it, had watched the telly. 

He had thought about it when John had been jealous and felt threatened by the wrong people. It was almost funny. But in retrospect, it really wasn't.

Or the times after a case is closed and Sherlock was running on an adrenaline high for hours and John looked at him with some unreadable expression in his eyes. Some of it was fondness. And the rest of it… Sherlock wanted it to be something more and still didn’t dare to ask. 

_ What are you to me? What am I to you? _

The answer isn’t simple. That is the only thing he is sure about right now. Lying in a pool of fake blood, face down on the pavement, pretending to be dead and killing his best friend for real. 

And the other thing he is sure about is that John wasn't just his best friend. No, that wasn’t all. He could fool everyone. Even John when he wanted to. But he couldn’t fool his own conscious and arguing mind.

Maybe it was better that John didn’t know the whole. This was good. The half truth. John never knowing what he was to Sherlock. There was no expectation. John would mourn less. The pain is to be borne alone and alone only.

“Please, let me just…”

At that moment, he wishes that John would touch him again. Just once. So that he can savour it this time. Record every response of each of his follicles, and keep it tucked away in his mind palace forever. For the times he will miss him, which will be a constant thing.

Someone turns him over and he can see through the haze of fake blood in his eyes.

It’s John. And not a face of John which he wanted to see ever in this life.

“Jesus, no.” He can hear John saying. 

The incredulous and horrified tone is just too much. Sherlock can’t really believe his own willpower at this point.

John looks dead. As if someone took away the light from his eyes. 

He did that. Of course he did.

John tries to stand up, probably because he can see his face now. His fake blood covering a very much dead face. The blood must not be very shocking. But the face must be.

“God, no.” 

That’s the last thing he can hear. Before he is pulled up on a stretcher and being taken away. 

Maybe it is really a mistake after all. Maybe Mycroft was right all along.

The fall didn’t hurt. It was never supposed to. What hurts is the separation. And the continuous tug that it was a mistake. 

What hurts is to leave the home, the home which stopped being a place long ago.

 

* * *

 

 

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Did you really think it through? I mean...”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock calmly interrupts his brother. “Don’t question me.”

“Just making sure, brother mine. I am not willing to be invasive but you know me. I see everything.” 

“What are you trying to say?” Sherlock straightens on the chair. Trying to not remember painful gasps and breathless whispers.

“Maybe it would be better if he knew. Just an observation.” Mycroft curls his lip. “Saved me some effort and saved him from some unnecessary emotions. You two are practically joined at the hip. I can’t imagine what it feels like for him.”

“What would I tell him?” Sherlock snaps. “What? I would leave a note saying that I need to go into hiding and I might not see him ever again? How would that be better than this? Uncertainty would be better?” 

He stops for a breath. His eyes are burning but Mycroft should not see the tears trying to come out. Stupid tear ducts. The reality is he never even had much time to sit and think about the repercussions his little stunt would cause.

“Absolution is better, Mycroft. Me being dead is better than me being anywhere and nowhere all at once.”

“And what if you do come back? Not if... pardon my language.” Mycroft sighs. “What will happen when you come back?”

“Then I will come back and apologize and…”

There is a pained smile on Mycroft’s face. He is being sympathetic, he is showing pity. He is taking pity on his little brother who did not think through the whole of a plan. It’s hateful. Pity is hateful. Sherlock Holmes never did anything to deserve pity.

“You didn't think about the consequences, did you?”

“I only thought about protecting him.” Sherlock says, and then adds like an afterthought. “And the safety of the others around me.” It isn’t the same, but it does make him upset to know that he is also dead to Mrs Hudson and Lestrade.

“I understand that, Sherlock. I absolutely do.”  Mycroft shakes his head. “But at this moment right now, you can feel it. It isn’t enough. Is it?”

“You don’t get to say another word on this matter.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply to that. 

“Promise me something?” Sherlock asks, taking a deep breath.

“About what?”

“About what else? John, of course.” Sherlock furrows his eyebrows to display annoyance, but also to hide the fact that his voice is faltering a bit. Even the mention of him makes his heart skip a beat. Will he ever get used to this? Does he want to get used to missing John?

“I am listening.”

“Just keep him safe, will you? Without invading his boundaries and without being too prominent, just do the annoying thing you do and just… keep an eye on him.”

Mycroft looks at him again. This time Sherlock can’t see any pity or the usual Mycroft pride of ‘I told you so. Never get attached’. It’s just sadness. Mycroft is sad for him. Sherlock is sad for himself. Mourning a death already, the death of whatever he had.

“You want me to babysit… Why? You think he will wait for you?”

“I am not saying that, am I?” Sherlock glares.

“You think you are not.” Mycroft replies, pursing his lips, apparently thinking about something else.

“Just do this as a favour for me. I am not asking much.” Sherlock turns his face away from his brother, hoping that he doesn’t notice his lip twitching.

“Okay.” Mycroft nods and looks at his own feet. “As you wish.”

“Keep him safe for when I come back so I still have a chance. If I come back… and…” Sherlock realizes his own voice is giving away the state of his mind.

“And?” Mycroft looks up. Sherlock can see him holding the table hard, knuckles white, as if controlling himself from saying something. Sherlock wishes Mycroft would just say it.

“And if I don’t… still keep him safe. Maybe as a memory. You know fully well what he is to me. Still. And no,” He looks pointedly at Mycroft, “ you don’t get to pity me for that.”

“I wasn’t planning to, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiles. “I am not really that cruel.”

Sherlock nods silently.

“Be safe.” Mycroft says again. “You know who saw you alive. And my protection has a limit.”

“I will.” Sherlock stands up abruptly. Anymore  time in that stuffy room Mycroft calls an office and he would die for real.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“Yes.”

“And if you want to see him, he will be at your grave today. In an hour or so. Your transportation will be here in two hours.” Mycroft drags his chair to sit. “So if you want to...” He gestures vaguely.

“Right.” Sherlock can’t understand how this one piece of news can be simultaneously happy and devastating.


	2. Sometimes I feel like giving up

There is no atmosphere on the moon. The weak gravitational force couldn’t keep the atmospheric gases in their places, so they did what they could. They just flew away from the surface, breaking every possible attachment. It’s impossible for humans to breathe in that condition. And things on the moon will weigh only 16.6% of what they weigh on the earth. It will feel like as if they are smaller than they used to be.

There is no sign of life on the moon. It doesn’t possess the ideal condition to give birth to life. A dead, white place with nothing to disturb its surface. Until something else touches the surface, it stays the same. Bearing every wound, every crater, every dent as it is.

* * *

 

He might have actually died with Sherlock because… this… this wasn’t how being alive feels like.

John looks at his distorted reflection on the window glass and wonders if he is actually a dead man walking and isn’t quite getting the hang of it yet. Maybe everyone around him is being polite and not telling him that he actually died. People can be overly polite sometimes. Like everyone keeps being at him. It’s atrocious. Politeness might be one of the most annoying virtues.

Reminiscing about the better parts isn’t helping at all. It isn’t helping to think about alive and lively Sherlock prancing around the room, making the floorboards creak. Or very alive and sulking Sherlock sitting on his chair, curled and oblivious to everything around him.

There is something pungent smelling in the kitchen but John doesn’t care to look for it. The faint theory that his mind is cooking up is not allowing him to. The theory is that the longer the smell stays, the longer he remembers Sherlock. As if he needs an incentive to remember him. It’s crazy and irrational and also at the same time makes perfect sense to him.

He is pretending that he is not falling apart. That sitting in his chair in the flat and looking at the empty chair in front of him isn’t killing him all over again. Once or twice, he called out Sherlock’s name hoping that he would materialize from thin air and release John from this living hell. It didn’t happen. Not even a change in the air flow.

But it still feels like at any minute now,  Sherlock is gonna walk into the room and sit in his chair and talk about things that might shock normal people, but not John.

Hours pass, there is not even a single creak anywhere. It’s disappointing and unfair.

The urge to just quit is all but dormant. Now Sherlock was nowhere to make him forget how lonely he is with everything he did, starting from being downright annoying to silently and quite oddly, comforting. It’s hard to not quit and be done with it.

Mrs Hudson thought John might be angry. She got that correct. Yes, he was. Not at Sherlock though. At himself. For dedicating a large chunk of his heart to something which never had any ground.

Would Sherlock be his if he was still alive? No? But that wasn’t Sherlock’s fault.

Whose fault was it that Sherlock was not alive?

His, of course.

If he, like a fool wasn't misled by Sherlock. None of these things would have happened. He would be with Sherlock and everything would not end up in a black headstone, in a too green cemetery. He had no idea green could be so painful to look at.

He actually cried in front of the grave. He actually fell to his knees. Not because they gave way. But because it made him feel closer to the man lying in the ground. They said his face was mangled and so a closed casket funeral was what was appropriate. Not that John would find solace in a lifeless face. The face who looked at everyone with an expression of utter disdain, however irritating might that have been… it’s impossible to look at the face in any other way. It is not possible to look at that beautiful face all ruined.

He did see that lifeless face though. The memory of the day is a bit hazy. Like a bad, experimental acid trip. A disconnected series of perfectly connected events. But still. Sherlock’s face. He would remember that, wouldn’t he? That might have been the highlight of the worst day of his existence.

Was it mangled? Was it too bloody?

He asked for a miracle. Kneeling on the ground of the cemetary, feeling the dew covered grass stinging through his trousers, and his own tears not stopping, he had begged for a miracle to Sherlock. Like all the miracles he constantly did. Like how he saved John. Like how he gave him meaning in his life back.

“Just another miracle, Sherlock. Don’t be dead. Just come back to me. I will never ask for anything again.” He remembers breaking down and the words weren’t stopping. “I will let you have it as you like. The mess in the kitchen. The stack of files in the sitting room. Fingers in the fridge. Ruined microwave. You can have it all.”

No reply came in spite of the very profitable offer.

“Just don’t be dead. I need you so much.” He thanked God that no one saw him like that. So weak and lonely and utterly empty.

Headstones can’t actually reply back to pleas. He wished that they did.

The stone was too cold. A striking contrast to the wrist he touched on the pavement of Bart’s. Sherlock was still warm as if he was alive. It’s the cruelty of nature. Death should bring the corpse like coldness immediately. False promises are harmful.

* * *

 

“I was nearby. Thought I should pay a visit. How are you doing?” Greg looks stressed. Dark under eye bags, unkempt hair. John knows Greg blames himself for not trusting Sherlock.

“I am doing good. Yourself?” John nods and gestures him to sit.

“Good, good. I am good.” He gives a rushed reply. “Would you… have some time to go to the pub today?” Greg hesitates. “You know… just a bit of refreshment.”

“And here I thought you had some juicy murder case for me. And then I realised how absurd that sounds.” John chuckles.

“I...” Greg looks like he is too lost.

“I was joking.” John smiles. “No, I can’t. Sorry Greg. Gotta go house hunting.”

“You are gonna leave this place?” Greg sounds surprised.

“Yes.” John gives a short reply and waits for the moment where Greg will ask him for an explanation.

But he doesn’t. Instead he looks at John, eyes looking past him. And then stands up abruptly.

“Good luck with the house hunting, John.” His face twitches to hide something. “And I am so sorry.” And then Greg walks out, without waiting for a reply from John.

It’s not only him that Sherlock broke apparently.

* * *

 

 

“The stuff that you wanted to say...”

He just nods at that first. Because the ability to talk has decreased nowadays. It’s just too much effort to talk. And it kills him to not get a snarky reply back at everything he says. As if Sherlock also took John’s voice with him that day. Along with his own life. Talking is too much. Living is just a waste of energy.

“But didn’t say.” Ella continues.

“Yes.” This time a whisper of a voice comes out. He sometimes can’t recognise his own voice.

“Say it now.”

Is she joking?

Because no. He can’t. No way, not in another thousand years. Because the words, the secret sentences of affection, that he practiced over and over in the silence of his room. How he will say it? Where he will say it? And what could happen. All the possibilities, all the scenarios.

Now they carried no meaning. Now that the object of his affection jumped from a building in front of his own eyes and then… He was nowhere. He just vanished somewhere where even John can’t find him anymore.

So he doesn’t tell Ella that he is having nightmares again. They start as John doing something different that day. Like not falling for the false phone call. Like him possessing the ability to run so inhumanly fast that he catches Sherlock just before he can jump. And then he punches Sherlock for his stupidity and then he kisses him. And then when he breaks the kiss and looks in front of him, all he can see is a pale, bloodless face and blood running from a head wound, rising up to John’s chest, too fast to fight. And then John wakes up and cannot sleep again.

That he still makes two cups of tea every time and leaves it on the table to get cold and doesn’t throw it out until he is absolutely sure that it’s undrinkable. So there are a lot of cups on the sink and a lot in the drawing room. He buys even more teacups. Tea in them getting stale, colder, undrinkable. He washes them all and pours tea all day.

He doesn’t tell Ella that sometimes his heart hurts so much that it’s unbearable and all he wants is to pry it out with his bare hands and leave the place hollow so that he can’t feel again.

He doesn’t tell Ella that he loved Sherlock. In all the ways a person can love another. Like a friend, like the love of their life, like the destination at the end of a long, long road, like the necessary air to breathe.

But Ella knows. Her eyes tell that all. The scribbling on her notebook says “Heartbreak”, “Abandonment”. She knows but she doesn’t press and John can’t be more thankful.

“No.” He says. “I can’t.”

Ella goes quiet at that. And the white noise of the rain outside increases. John can’t cry in front of her, not more than he already has. So it  looks like the rain compensates for him.

“Is there any other way, John?” Ella asks quietly.

“For what?” John realizes against all his better judgements there are actually tears in his eyes.

“To let it out.” She sighs. “Anything at all? Because you need to.”

“I can’t leave him. If you are suggesting that.” John huffs. “I can’t forget him. That’s not happening.”

“I can’t suggest that. I am not suggesting that.”

“Then?”

“Find peace in his memory. You can try that. Instead of finding pain, find peace.”

He almost laughs out loud. Because finding peace in what? Knowing that Sherlock died with a thousand lies thrusted upon him? That he couldn’t do anything about it? What is even peaceful about any of it? Maybe in theory, death is peaceful, but not the debris it leaves behind.

Ella is looking at him with expecting eyes, waiting for any response he can give.

And it clicks just then. Sherlock didn’t die on his own wish. However selfish that sometimes looked like and however John cursed at the empty flat for leaving him alone like that, leg  hurting and miserable and broken again, Sherlock would never leave him if he had a chance.

Finding peace in his memory. There was a way to do that. A perfect solution for the pain.

Finding the warzone, winning the war, finding peace. That’s easy. How had he been such an idiot for all this time?

“Thank you.” He smiles back at Ella.

“What for?” Ella looks puzzled. Of course she can’t know what’s going on in John's mind right now. She doesn't possess that ability. Someone else did. That someone is sleeping a peaceful sleep at the Paddington Old Cemetery, under a very green and tall tree. Just like he was.

“For showing me the way.” John stands up. And he can’t keep himself from smiling. That must make Ella more confused, this sudden mood change. From a breakdown to the smile as if he won a war. But he can’t stop.

“You are welcome?” Ella replies slowly, confusion creasing her brow. God knows what she suspects. But John can’t wait to walk out of that room, and he does just that.

He walks in the rain. Feels the rain soaking gradually through his jumper, his shirt, his skin. Making him shiver. Making him wonder.

And although it is a perfect opportunity to cry with joy at last, he doesn’t. Instead he tries to remember where exactly Mycroft’s cameras are. Sherlock knew all of them. And over time, John became aware of them as well. He tries to deduce if the car behind him right now is Mycroft’s watcher. The car doesn’t acknowledge him and passes by. Maybe it is there to watch him. Maybe it isn’t. But it doesn’t matter.

Because he lived with the world’s only consulting detective for two years and fell in love with him and couldn’t say that out loud. So all he could do was to learn from him. So John knows the man who is pretending to pick up his wind blown umbrella from the street right now, is looking at him. The girl crossing the street with her friend, is keeping an eye for him as well. He knows exactly where there is a camera on the next road, hidden from public eyes.

He takes the tube and sits like a statue and thinks. A lot. And almost misses his stop.

John doesn’t even bother to remove his sodden clothes. Instead he runs to his room, leaving wet patches of rainwater everywhere. And after a frantic search for a couple of minutes, brings out a box with a layer of dust over it. Memories from a life he left behind. There are  dog tags inside, a couple of letters, a picture of the Afghanistan sand and a phone number on a piece of paper which he never bothered to save on his mobile. Never wanted, actually.

His heart beats in sync with the rings of the phone. Something inside him reminds him about how he can still back off and forget about the whole thing.

A familiar voice greets him from the other side. John feels like he is younger. And the battlefield has found him again.

“Watson, it’s such a pleasure to hear your voice again.” The voice says with a chuckle.

Mycroft Holmes has no idea that how easy it is to disappear even from under his too powerful eyes.

  


* * *

 

Mycroft tells himself that he does his best. He is doing his best without a doubt.

It’s not possible to keep an eye on John Watson all by himself. There are people for that. There are cameras all around London for that. And for two weeks, John has had an almost identical routine everyday. Even Mycroft knows it.

For the first two weeks, John didn’t have any routine. And it wasn’t easy to look at. On the eighth day since Sherlock’s apparent death, John’s grocery bag tore in the middle of the road and John didn’t even register it. He just looked at the torn bag with a look of disdain on his face and then went back to the store again.

Or the time John stood in front of the house for a whole hour like a statue. In blinding rain. Mycroft didn’t know what to do. How to console a man who lost his… friend? Spouse? John looked like he lost a spouse. And Mycroft was never considered an idiot by anyone.

His own brother actually broke John. And Mycroft has no idea what to do about that.

Sherlock is scheduled to call him in exactly three days. Mycroft doesn't have much to tell him about John. Only that John might be going back to his normal life, which might have be a bit surprising. But not really. Soldiers and strength of mind and all that.

So when Anthea comes in the room with a worried shadow over her face, Mycroft doesn’t connect that with John.

“What is it? Anything about tomorrow's meeting?”

“No.” Anthea hesitates for a moment, as rare as that sight is.

“Why are you pondering? I really don’t have time for this.” Mycroft crosses his arms, impatience reflected in his eyes.

“It’s Dr Watson, sir.” She takes a pause. “He has been missing for an hour now.”

“Missing?” Mycroft stands up and feels the chair rattle away with the sudden motion. “Missing? How?”

“Well, he went to his Friday grocery shopping trip as usual. Considering that it’s his day off from the clinic. And weekends are for house hunting...” She shifts her weight. “Amber was in there as usual, it’s routine. He never shifts from his routine, I swear.”

“And?” Mycroft knows the question comes out an octave higher than he would prefer.

“And it was crowded today. The store. And she lost sight of him and she searched by herself for ten minutes. But no one even saw him going out of the store. It’s like,” She takes a nervous gulp. “He evaporated.”

The grey walls of the room feel smaller. No wonder it has something to do with the remaining web of Moriarty. No wonder someone knows Sherlock is alive. And it’s not surprising someone knows how to add an extra incentive. It was no news to anyone what the good, apparently harmless doctor was worth. Moran is no idiot.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too late to tell me?” He says in a biting tone.

“Well he does take a lot of time with his groceries. We always keep some buffer time.” She hesitates. Mycroft can’t remember ever really seeing her startled.

“Just go. You know what to do.”

“Yes Sir.” Anthea turns on her heel and walks away.

A thousand things crowd together. First, he needs proof of this disappearance being the work of Moriarty's web. If not, then he has to consider the worst. At the deepest depth of the Thames, or somewhere it’s not easy to find a broken man.

And on the top of everything, until there is any news, he has to lie to Sherlock. Convincingly, in less than three days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda blown away by the number of subscriptions on just one chapter. You guys are just amazing. Thanks for all the nice comments and kudos. The title of this chapter is from a song by Shawn Mendes called "In my blood". Very post-TRF John POV.  
> Hope you liked this chapter. Lots of love.


	3. I am lost in my dreams, I want you to know

Because there is no atmosphere on the moon, there is no sound anywhere. So, no matter how much anyone screams, there is nothing to carry that sound. It’s eerily calm on the moon, to which a human being is not really used to. 

The sky is always black because there is no dust particles in the atmosphere to give the sky a beautiful blue shade through the scattering of sunlight. 

It’s always night on the moon. And earth looks devastatingly beautiful and unachievable from there.

* * *

 

 

There is something very comforting about rough bedsits, as weird as it sounds. 

It reminds him of forgotten days, a life that happened not so long ago. There used to be the smell of gunpowder along with it. Right now, it just smells dusty.

“It’s risky, what you are doing.” 

Captain Davies says grimly and glances at the bag again. “You are not the same, Watson. After the injuries...” She absentmindedly rubs her mechanical leg and looks up. “None of us are the same. Because it does not only injure the body, but a piece of the soul is also injured forever.”

“I am well aware of my lessened ability.” John replies, balancing the knife on his finger.

“Is the risk worth taking? It will be hectic and… I am not going to sugarcoat it,” She clears her throat. “Although you refuse to tell me everything, my instinct tells me you will not get out of this alive. Are you sure about that, John?”

“I am absolutely sure about that, Celeste.” John throws the knife up and catches it swiftly in mid air, a trick he used to be better at. “I am grateful for everything you are doing. But that will be all. I am determined and I have a plan. I’ve had it for months.”

“Good luck as usual then, Captain.” Celeste says with a tight lipped smile. “Your transport will be here at 0600 hours. I suggest you take a good and proper rest.”

“Will do. Thanks again for everything.”

“Anytime John.” She walks out of the room, limping slightly, and closes the door silently behind her.

He lies down, falls asleep, and dreams about a human head in the fridge, and an eccentric man lying on the couch of a cozy room.

* * *

 

 

“Your friends will die if you don’t.” Moriarty says too calmly for a person who is currently held over the ledge of a four storied building and is entirely at the mercy of the man holding him.

“John?” Sherlock says with a hitched breath, his heart pounds like it will stop working.

“You are so utterly transparent, Sherlock Holmes. Shame on you!” Moriarty's smiling face mocks him and his grip loosens.

Moriarty takes the opportunity to stand up and bring out a gun.

“How does it feel?” He asks before breaking into laughter and raising his hand to shoot.

Then there is a gunshot and a stream of blood and John’s body lying lifeless on the roof of Bart’s.

“If only you died for real, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

“Everything good, Mr Brown?”

“Ah yes, almost. Could I have one La Stampa, please.”

“Here you go. Is the weather not doing you good?” The old man smiles at him.

“No, Mr Murphy. It's just a persisting stomach bug.” Sherlock nods after paying for the newspaper, and walks away drinking his coffee. There is no Sherlock Holmes under the goatee and indistinguishable clothes.

It’s Friday, if the new routine in John's clinic according to Mycroft is accurate, John is going to be awake in an hour, with one side of his hair standing up in haphazard angles, looking younger than he is. 

He is pretty sure that John thought Sherlock gave no attention to him when he walked in the kitchen like that, making two cups of coffee. Sherlock’s would always get cold. Because it was too mesmerizing to witness John waking up slowly with each sip of the coffee. John thought Sherlock was thinking about his magnesium derivative. Would it be funny if Sherlock announced that he was aware of how many exact milliliters of coffee woke John up, that the rest of the coffee was just luxury? 

Maybe he should have announced it, that way John would at least know. 

He has a rendezvous at exactly ten o'clock that night, after that, Mr Brown is going to disappear into thin air. Who knows, maybe Mr. Murphy will wonder about his regular customer? Perhaps even the usual barista in the costa would be curious, his name was John too. That didn’t exactly help with the consumption of the coffee. If anything, it made it difficult.

The air is extraordinarily fresh, the kind people would want to live and breathe in. But all he wants is dust and mothballs, the occasional smell of tea and the faint smell of clinical grade hand sanitizer John uses.

Everything goes extremely well. An arrest, a pair of frantic looking eyes, victory.

But it’s impossible to gloat, actually.

It has only been four months. Mycroft says that Mummy misses him. Sherlock almost forgets that part because after that Mycroft quietly added that he has seen John smiling at a woman outside the grocery store.

* * *

 

 

The east path to the monastery is always so unusually and comfortably warm that it baffles Sherlock’s mind every time. No matter how cold the weather is in this part of Tibet or how much the cold threatens to freeze his bones, the east path is always warm. And it didn’t seem like anyone even questioned the abnormality of the whole thing.

“You seem distracted. I have been noticing since the morning prayer.” The head Lama says with a smile that wrinkles the corners of his eyes. The smile which might also know the answer for it as well. 

“My apologies. I know it’s not ideal.” Sherlock bows down and sits in front of him, the usual feeling of calm and tranquility that encircles him in the presence of this man, starts working almost immediately.

“Did I ever say that? In any of the morning lessons?” Rabten Lama asks calmly.

“No.” Sherlock is not sure if he even says it. Instead of clarifying, he looks at his side, the bright flags of the monastery fly like free birds in the cold wind. Last night he dreamt that John killed himself and everyone forgot to tell him.

“I talk about spirit and soul and the purpose of life and the understanding of the world around us. I never talk about abandoning love. What is a human being who has never known love in his life?”

That makes Sherlock almost snap his neck and look straight at the man in front of him. There is something otherworldly about the man. From the beginning, every time Sherlock tried to study him, he had felt like he hadn’t properly observed or he was not seeing him as a whole. There is something in the man which is beyond the human eye.

“I don’t know.” He says without questioning back about how exactly Lama knew what was keeping him distracted.

“Ask me.” Rabten asks with a wider smile.

“What is a man without love?” Sherlock repeats the phrase.

“An empty shell of a failed existence. Love and peace are not really that different from each other. It’s just that we are unable to appreciate everything properly when we actually have it. We crave peace when everything seems to be at chaos although when we actually had the peace, we never bothered to acknowledge or appreciate it.” He shakes his head with a melancholic expression. “For the love part, I believe you have some experience yourself.”

“I guess so.” Sherlock blinks slowly.

“Did you love John?”

“What? How?” The sudden question feels like a slap. He can’t know that much… It’s not possible.

“Calm down. It’s no magic.” Lama laughs. “Your roommate complained about you screaming in your sleep a few days ago. About John. And about how everything was a mistake. I advised him to muffle his ears at night. Who am I to tell you to stop dreaming?” He giggles like child. “It’s a very inappropriate thing to ask a person, to stop dreaming.”

“I will apologize to Pemba.” Sherlock mumbles and feels smaller than ever.

“It’s fine. I know he is sad for you. Because I am too.” 

“Still. I am sorry. It is my fault.” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Who cares? But you did not answer my question.” He replies, pointing his finger playfully at Sherlock.

Sherlock pauses for a second, or a minute, he isn’t sure. The golden pillar of the monastery reflects a blinding light and he is sure he sees John for a second. Smiling over his breakfast and talking about the recklessness of the night before. That he is too old for the situations Sherlock puts him in all the time.

“Did I love him? Yes. I certainly did. I still do, maybe more than before. And it’s distracting me and it’s scary. Because I have a long way ahead and I can't afford the luxury of ruminating in thoughts of the love which might not even be reciprocated in this lifetime.” Sherlock stops for breath and realizes that his voice had gone higher than before, attracting the attention of passerby monks.

“Don’t be so bleak so easily.” Rabten frowns. “And don’t think of love as a luxury. It’s a privilege.”

“I just… miss him. And it’s not really a pleasant feeling.” Sherlock’s eyes burn with the effort to stop the tears. And the act of pouring feelings about the deepest desires of his heart to a practically unknown and mysterious man seems like the best decision ever. It doesn’t feel like he is naked and everyone is judging him. That’s what the feeling has always been when it came to the thoughts about John.

“Then pray to be with him as soon as possible.” Rabten’s voice sounds closer. A hand lightly touches his head. “I will pray for you Mr Holmes. Just believe in yourself.”

When Sherlock looks up, the ever mysterious monk is nowhere to be seen as usual.

Pemba always sleeps like a dead log. And his name is Sigerson here. And Sherlock knows from his experience that no matter how much he wants, some things don’t have an answer.

* * *

 

 

He isn’t sure what wakes him up. It might be the sunlight on his eyes but he is sure that it had reached his eyes a few moments after he had woken up. So it was possibly the bells outside. 

Six thirty in the morning. He isn’t used to the sweet chime of the bells yet. There is something else outside as well. Some kind of low noise. But it’s a change from the monastery in Tibet. The bells always made him feel like his soul was trying to leave his physical body and not really in a nice way.

It’s just pathetic how he intended to wake up to the smell of toast and bacon and the familiar smell of lemon scented soap. And sometimes overpowering mothballs. Scent memories are the cruelest of all it seems.

“Mr Sigerson, are you awake yet?” A young and familiar voice says from somewhere.

So that was why he woke up… Sherlock smiles to himself.

Sherlock takes his time. He rubs his eyes and sits straight on the bed and breathes. And tries to not think about last night’s dream.

“Come in.” He doesn’t even get to complete his statement before a thin frame burges into his door, carrying a covered plate. The noise outside gets clearer. Rhythmic and soothing chanting and music with it. 

“You wake up early, usually.” The boy says, and puts the plate down carefully. Then removes the cover with a huge smile on his face to reveal a heap of food. “Mother made sweets and insisted that you eat all of them.” 

Sherlock fakes a groan and bursts into laughter. “Upendra, tell your mother I said thank you.And that she is spoiling me.” Sherlock shakes his head and gets out of bed. Rubbing his face to get a feeling of how long his stubble is. “Why aren’t you in school though?”

“Because today is festival day.” Upendra occupies the only chair in the room and starts swinging his feet.

“What festival?” Sherlock asks.

“Ah, you keep forgetting Sigerson sahib.” The boy looks disappointed. “It’s Janmashtami. I told you. God Krishna’s birthday. And...” His face lights up and he abruptly stops, as if waiting for Sherlock to complete the sentence.

“And yours as well.” Sherlock sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “I am so forgetful. Happy birthday, you little thing.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. “Now excuse me for five minutes and wait here. And eat some sweets. I can’t eat all of them. No matter how much your mother wants to fatten me up.” He gets outside and squints his eyes to adjust to the light.

“Mother said to sit and see while you eat all of them, Mr Sigerson.” Sherlock laughs at the voice coming from the room and walks towards the toilet. 

John would probably hate to see his stubble-slowly-turning-into-beard. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Sherlock doesn’t know that. The list of not knowing is so long right then that it puts pressure on his amygdala and the pain is overpowering.

John doesn’t even know that he is alive. That trumps all of those unknown facts.

From what Mycroft said in a five minute brief phone call, in which John took most of the time was that John is well, as well as possible. And that Sherlock shouldn’t worry. There will come a time when Sherlock won’t even get that much information anymore. Even that thought of the day is something he wishes to avoid. Let alone the impending day.

Sherlock comes out of the toilet and as he gets near his room, he can hear the boy continuously talking about how his mother is expecting a report on exactly which ones he liked and that she sent the Kesar peda he showed an affinity to last time he brought them to him.

“You know I never liked celebrating birthdays. But that’s because I don’t like most people. Obviously people screaming happy birthday at me.” Sherlock comes back into the room. 

Meanwhile Upendra has helped himself with Sherlock’s magnifying glass from the table and is busy now watching an ant on the wall.

“You like that thing, don’t you?”

The boy’s eyes go wide. “Mother told me last time to not touch anything since she heard that I broke that pen. Don’t tell my mother.”

Sherlock laughs. And drags his suitcase from under the bed and sits on the floor. The enthusiastic boy drags his chair closer and peeks at what he is hiding. That apparently doesn’t satisfy him, so he just sits on the floor.

Sherlock brings out a metal box. It makes a mild rattling noise.

“This,” He brings out an identical magnifying glass for the boy to see. “Is for you. Happy birthday.”

“This is mine?” Upendra's eyes go wide in disbelief as Sherlock hands him the glass. “I can take it home?”

“Yes.” Sherlock chuckles. “That’s what a gift usually means.”

The boy doesn’t answer. Instead just looks at his palm, still not quite believing that he received such a treasure. Then his eyes shift to something else.

“Who is that, Mr Holmes?” He points inside the box.

Sherlock looks towards the direction and everything inside him just starts racing. Of course he put that photo there himself. But hadn’t dared to look at it till then. Even when opening the box, he was actively avoiding looking at the inside of the lid. 

Because inside the lid, taped neatly, was a photograph of John.

Nothing special, really. Far from special. It was one of those boring kind of photographs people use on their driving license or passports. John looked utterly bored in it. And irritated.

And Sherlock realizes that it’s impossible to take his eyes off that little, grainy, almost unrecognizable photograph. It wouldn’t matter if it was high definition and full of colour. That tiny photograph was bringing out repressed pain and the reminder of last night’s dream. In which he was home and John was there and John was closer to him and he still couldn’t touch him. Not even in his dream. John was complaining about how the sulfuric acid had made quite a large hole in the living room carpet and Sherlock remembers trying to talk over John and telling him that he loves him. John couldn’t listen, like always. Sherlock had never been clear enough.

“Are you sleeping, Sahib?” A little finger pokes his arm.

“Huh.” Sherlock blinks rapidly and can’t find words for a few seconds. Then he remembers where he is. Sitting on the floor of a tiny cabin in a nameless village in Nepal and thinking about lost opportunities with John. Why was he even bothering? The lost opportunities are going to be lost forever. Better John never realized anything. Not the stolen glances over cups of tea or when John was busy with his dinner.

Or the times when Sherlock purposefully botched up John’s dates. John would never suspect those being intentional, of course. He is Sherlock, why would he do that. 

“No. I am thinking.”

“About him?” The boy points at the photograph again.

“Yes.”

“Is he the doctor you talked about the other day? The one who solves mysteries with you?”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiles at the boy. “He is the doctor. And he is my best friend. Probably the only friend I have.”

“You are looking sad.” Upendra’s face falls. “Why are you sad?”

“I haven’t seen or talked to him for a long time.” 

_ And I haven’t heard him calling my name. It’s different when he says my name, and I don’t know why. Or probably I do. _

“Oh.” The boy almost jumps at the realization. “Like when I go to bajai’s house, I miss my mother a lot. Because...” The boy scoots closer. “Don’t tell her this, but I miss her screaming at me for not doing my homework.” He giggles. 

“Exactly.” Sherlock closes the box and something deep inside breaks apart but he keeps a smile on.

“He used to scream at me a lot too.”

“Why? Did you forget to do your homework too?”

“Oh yes, I always did.” Sherlock closes the suitcase and returns it to its place then stands up.

“Let’s see how much I can please your mother.” He looks at the plate again. “Are you sure you can’t eat some? I am really unable to eat all of those.”

“I will eat some only if you do something in return.” The boy sticks out his tongue in silent mischief.

“Tell you a story. Right?”

“Yes!” He jumps in joy. And Sherlock sits on his bed while Upendra drags his chair closer.

“So, this was about a stolen flashdrive.” Sherlock takes a bite of the laddoo. “And a bad guy who was trying to scare me off.”

“But you don’t get scared.”

“I don’t, ever.”

Outside, the sweet melody fills up the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most common practice while writing post-TRF stories is to describe usual Eurpoean countries during the time of Sherlock's hideout. Not saying that there isn't any exception, there is. But the cause of it might be that most fic writers are from the western countries. I actually enjoy it. But when I decided to write this fic, I wanted to give scenes happening in the Indian subcontinent, and obviously, Tibet. Holmes spent a great part of his hiatus there. Don't know if my writing worked out, but I tried. The locations aren't really canon correct, but near-canon.
> 
> N.B :-  
> 1) Janmashtami is God Krishna's birthday and is one of the biggest festivals of Nepal.  
> 2) Bajai is grandmother in Nepali.  
> 3) Laddoo is a sweet made of basically flour, ghee (refined butter) and sugar. And usually contains dry fruits in it as well. It's a pretty common sweet in the Indian subcontinent.  
> 4) Kesar peda is another sweet. Kesar is saffron and peda is a firm and flat sweet made from milk. It's very rich in taste.  
> 5) Sahib is a common form of address which has it's origin in the colonial history, where mainly westerners were addressed by this. But it's nowadays widely used as a form of respect for anyone. Sahib is just Sir.


	4. Wonder when does this end

The moon might look very insignificant in shape and size when in comparison to the planet it rotates around. But at its perigee, the moon influences the earth with its gravity. And that’s in no way a little influence. Tidal waves, unpredictable weather. Only fools think that the moon is insignificant.

There is an ancient belief that the moon causes madness to some people. It’s not scientifically proven to be true. Maybe it does. Maybe it turns people mad with its ethereal and literally otherworldly presence. The world, lunacy, still bears the touch of the moon. It’s simply insanity caused by the moon.

It’s almost romantic, lunacy.

 

* * *

 

“Mr Sigerson, wake up! Mr Sigerson!”

Sherlock sits up on his bed with a jerk and it takes some time to register that the pounding is coming from his door and that he is not hiding in the basement of a nightclub in Vienna. That one month of living in that tiny space with music vibrating through the basement might have been the real life nightmare that will forever be etched into his brain. Hundreds of steps over his head, pummeling and bass fueled sound vibrating through the whole building.

“Mr Holmes!” The pounding is louder and the voice is more desperate than before, Almost trying to break the door at this point.

When he stands up, his hands are shaking inexplicably. He wraps the blanket tightly around himself and opens the door to reveal a horrified face holding a oil lamp.  It’s the face of the usually quiet landlord. Quiet because he knows things and also quiet because it’s his nature. Now he is looking like he has seen a ghost or worse, a murder.

Only then it clicks that just second ago Prasanth was calling him by his real name, he never slips.

“Prasanth, what happened?” Sherlock finds that his voice is not acting as he wants it to. His instincts pointing to the fact that it’s something he would not like at all.

“I think you should call your contacts, your brother, whoever.” Prasanth whispers, his voice shaky and tight.

“Why?” Sherlock whispers back.

Prasanth takes a deep breath and when he talks again, he sounds calmer than before. But his hands are clearly shaking.

“Because,” Prasanth pauses and takes another deep breathe in. “There is a dead body lying in a ditch only two kilometers from here.” His eyes go wide with uncertainty. “Prima facie, homicide. One bullet from a gun. The police haven't even arrived yet.”

“And?” Sherlock can hear his own heartbeat at this point, or maybe it’s just the blood rushing through his system, he is not sure. “Whose body is it?” 

“It’s of Ronald Macmullan. You are familiar with that name.” Prasanth says flatly.

That comes as a shock, quite a huge one. The chill that runs through his spine is quite inexplicable. Why is he scared that his target is already dead?

“He… I… was supposed to...” Sherlock can’t hear anything over the loud pulsating of his own heart.

He was supposed to trap that man, confront him and deposit him to the law, because Ronald Macmullan is the head of the eastern zone of Moriarty’s web. One of the bigger serpent heads who are still up and alive even after the master died.

Months of staying undercover to track him down, his wall still has Ronald’s face on it, stuck in the middle with a thumbtack.

Months of waiting, and now he is lying dead in a ditch. Sherlock finds that irritates him.

He was supposed to go to New Delhi in a week and there was not supposed to be any bloodshed because that would give away that he is alive and also because it meant more attention and there were more people to look out for. 

Ronald Macmullan was supposed to vanish into thin air inexplicably, not die from a bullet wound. Enough to cause a concern, not enough to cause panic among his colleagues. A lot of them are already going off the radar after Sherlock’s first capture.

Ronald Macmullan was not supposed be in Nepal, certainly not so close to him. 

“I know what you were supposed to do. I know that too well.” Prasanth says lowering the lamp to the ground and starts shuffling through his pockets. “But what you are going to do now is run. And I will help you, because I owe your brother that much. And if Ronald was here, that means your cover is blown already.” He pauses and adds, “I am sorry Sherlock, I can’t keep you here anymore. I have a family.” He brings out a car key and gives it to Sherlock. “I kept it fuelled and ready with base essentials in fear that someday you will need it. Didn’t want that fear to come true.”

Sherlock nods silently and clenches his fist around the car key.

The cover was blown since the shadow saw him alive at the rooftop at Bart’s. Mycroft knew that, he knew that. But the shadow was not supposed to know about everything. Maybe along the way he was careless enough, of course he was. He is a bloody fool who still thinks himself as invincible, as if that didn’t cause enough damage to his life already. 

So he runs, not knowing what happened. What angel or demon appeared out of nowhere and killed Ronald, not in details at least.

It’s too hard to say goodbye to a teary eyed little boy of ten whose english lessons are half done and especially when he is clearly not crying for that reason.

“Are you going to see your friend?” The boy asks with watery eyes, hiding behind his mother.

“Not yet. But I will.” Sherlock tries to smile in the midst of the chaos in his head. “I hope I will.”

“Okay.” The boy sniffles.

“Keep this safe.” He gives the little boy a map of London and hopes that it will be enough while knowing full well that it will never be. Nothing is never enough. ‘All hearts are broken’, Mycroft used to say like a broken record. ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.’

As if he didn’t know that already. As if dying didn’t teach him a lesson already. He has told himself countless times in the past that he didn’t care, at least he is more accepting of it now. Only after a significant amount of sacrifice. If he could have accepted it before, things would be different.

He can still hear the sobs of the boy coming from behind him even after a mile. Which means it’s in his mind only but that doesn’t make it any less real. 

It’s evening in London, John is probably asleep, Mycroft says his clinic hours are getting longer. That must be exhausting.

Sherlock clenches his jaw and looks in front of himself. A dark road barely illuminated by the headlights of the Jeep, just like his life is at the moment. He thinks he is holding the steering wheel but in reality, it has a mind of its own and Sherlock is just the victim of an illusion.

 

* * *

 

_ Name: 【Redacted】 _

_ Body type: South Asian male in mid thirties. _

_ Location: 【Redacted】 _

_ Cause of death: Single bullet to the head at an angle of seventy degrees, fast death. _

_ Additional notes: Signs of struggle and some minor injuries beforehand. A fresh wound over the left brow _

_ Possessions found: Two automatic revolvers and a carbon steel knife.  _

_ Identification mark: A large tattoo on his right upper arm of a hindi phrase that translates to ‘inner peace’. _

Mycroft says it must have been some internal feud inside the web or just an old enemy. Like most times, he is possibly right. These kinds of people always have those. The more power you have within a system, the more enemies you make, most of the time from the same side you are on. 

That doesn’t make the situation less scary. Because if the stranger didn’t kill Ronald, the body lying in the guestroom of Thapa house would have been Sherlock’s. The shadow caught his scent and that’s scariest of everything. No guarantee that the shadow won’t catch him again. 

The bullet is from a Sig Sauer P226R.

Mycroft also tells him that John is well and healthy, albeit a bit thinner and after a bit more pressing, he also informs that John probably has a date with a nurse from his clinic. She is blond and has a lovely smile, according to his brother. Sherlock certainly didn’t ask. Of course his eyes didn’t burn at the news. John’s happiness is supposed to make him happy. 

Sherlock tries to not think about it when he is trailing a man’s activities with a shitty satellite internet connection. The annoying loading signs of the browser almost makes him want to break the computer. He would if it wasn’t necessary for his work. 

He gives in after a while and waits for John’s blog to load in another tab. And when it does, he exits immediately. There must be something about him in it and that is bad for his current state of mind. And even if there isn’t, that’s actually worse. So why should he bother taking the risk.

His landlady of this tiny but well kept room in Dresden is exceptionally quiet and unbelievably old. She looks so fragile that Sherlock fears that one gust of wind is enough to topple her over the balcony when she is watering her flowers.  On more than one occasion Sherlock had to knock on her door with random excuses to check that she is still alive. 

She reminds him of Mrs Hudson, no doubt. That feeling is accelerated when he sometimes comes back at night to find a steaming tray of food waiting for him in his room. He never bothered to tell her to not put in that much effort. He knows the type. It’s comforting and sometimes it keeps him grounded when he is too lost inside his head.

Because with only that little piece of familiarity, he sometimes builds a castle out of it.

He closes his eyes and imagines that the uncomfortable bedsit is actually the sofa in the drawing room in 221b, the faint aroma of the coffee is not from his landlady’s kitchen but it’s the one coming from his cup just beside his head, the mild sounds of utensils and whatnot are just John walking around the flat trying to tidy up the mess Sherlock usually makes. The wind is actually coming from the window of the drawing room John had to open to get rid of the smell of burning bird feces from his latest experiment.

He can picture it vividly with his eyes closed. He is pretending to be deep in thought and John stands beside his head. Sherlock looks up and sees a frown on his face which quickly dissolves into the familiar fond smile.

Then John kneels beside the sofa, his knees give a mild pop, and he looks embarrassed as always, as if getting old is something to be ashamed of. John thinks it’s degrading, but what he doesn’t know is that these are the things that makes him John, his John. The popping knee, the quick temper, bad tea making skills, interesting choice of jumpers, thin lips, eyes so heavy and deep that he could just look into them and he wouldn’t even know if he died.

John smiles. His face gets closer, barely inches away from Sherlocks. Making Sherlock forget how to do basic human operations, such as how to breathe, or blink, or be alive.

And that’s when Sherlock makes himself snap out of it and goes for a walk in the freezing cold, not listening to his landlady’s concerned calls from behind. He tries to not think about how John might be on a date right now, how there might be a blond and smiling woman in Baker Street. Their home, only their home. John still lives there, it’s the only comforting thought.

Of course John’s happiness is supposed to make him happy. But not if he isn’t a part of that happiness, or the cause of that happiness. He is not a saint, he doesn’t even consider himself human enough.

 

* * *

 

There is a frozen lake here not so far away. If he dies in there, no one will find him until spring. It won’t make any difference to John, he is already dead to him. But that will also mean that the little window of chance he still has to go back and breathe London and feel John and his existence around him, will be gone forever. It’s an entertaining thought at that moment. 

He stands beside the lake for an hour, watching the sun setting slowly and when only a quarter of the sun is left to go behind the treeline, he calls Mycroft from his burner phone.

“How is John?”

“That's quite straightforward. You usually ask some unessecary questions before coming to that point. ” Mycroft sounds different. It’s not the usual annoyance. It’s something else. “He is fine as usual.” Mycroft clears his throat. “He is on a date with the woman I told you about earlier.”

“Why do you sound like that?” Sherlock doesn’t know why he prepares himself for something disastrous. Some piece of news that is going to drag the ground from beneath his feet suddenly. He finds that he is getting better at this intuition thing. 

“There is a mild concern.” Mycroft sounds distant.

“About John?” 

_ Is he dead? Is he sick? Are you lying to me? _

“No.” Sherlock can feel the eyeroll with the word and he lets out a breath of relief while Mycroft continues. “It’s about Michael Schneider.”

“It’s all set for tomorrow, I am going to meet him with the Ming vase, what is the concern about that? I am pretty sure that I can be convincing.”

“Seems like someone else already surprised him.” Mycroft says, “Police found him an hour ago in his house, tied to a pillar on his front porch, a needle still sticking out from his arm, nitrazepam, possibly the reason why he didn’t give too much of a fight.”

“Robbery?” Sherlock blinks, trying to process the information. “He is a collector.”

“No. Because every collector’s item in the house is untouched. Even in the open locker. Even the money.”

“Then?” Sherlock waits, holding his breath because there is more, Mycroft’s voice says so.

“It’s going to sound unbelievable,” Mycroft chuckles, which is unnerving in itself. “but, every document ever needed to accuse him and assure his lifelong imprisonment, was piled in a neat pile beside him. I suppose it was not you?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Sherlock snaps. “Obviously not. I am still miles away from where he lives.”

“Was certain of that but still had to ask.” Mycroft sounds tense on the other side of the phone, which is quite unnatural considering his usual demeanor. Is he afraid? That’s a more rare of an occasion than the blooming of a corpse flower.

“So who is it?” Sherlock asks slowly. “You do have some information, I am sure.”

Mycroft sighs audibly.

“Sources say he gave a very undescriptive description. Masked and geared individual with tremendous strength. Was very swift and thorough. He didn’t talk. So Michael doesn’t know what he sounded like and as a result, we don’t know as well. Caucasian male in between thirty to forty years of age isn’t really a helpful piece of information, I am afraid.”

“Someone from the military? The strength and swiftness you talk about. Schneider was military, it only takes someone similar to him to even put a tranquiliser needle in his arm...” Sherlock bites his lip, almost losing himself in the thought of something impossible. 

No… John is fine. John is happy. A Sig Sauer is not only John’s weapon. He is just being an idiot.

“Yes, I assumed so.” Mycroft says, dragging Sherlock out of his thoughts. “It would take similar strength and tactics.”

“This and Nepal, it can’t be...” Sherlock groans.

“A coincidence.” Mycroft cuts him off. “Nothing as coincidence exists.”

“Then either I have a friend or Moriarty had a bigger enemy than me. Who might also know that I am alive.” Sherlock tries to laugh. But it sounds odd even to his own ears. “Is my next target also his next target, considering how we intertwined twice already, or am I his next target?” 

“I say the scenario where Moriarty had a more vengeful enemy than you is more likely.” Mycroft replies. “But that doesn’t necessarily make him your friend.”

“So time to say adios to Dresden you say.” Sherlock sighs. “I quite liked this place.”

“No, you didn’t. And yes, be out of the house before midnight.” Mycroft sounds determined. “Take route B, turn on another burner and wait for my call three days from now. Don’t try to contact me before that. Understood?

“Understood. You will let me know of any progress, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock sighs. “Wish I was able to do more on this stupid phone than just having fruitless conversations with you. The poor excuse of a laptop I possess just makes me angry. Why can’t I connect to the free WiFi of the Costa for just thirty minutes?”

“You know that’s just to keep you safe.” Mycroft says matter of factly. “It’s hard to be anonymous on the internet no matter what you do. And after Nepal, and this, I don’t want you to take anymore chances.”

“Yes, yes. I am aware.” Sherlock scoffs.

“I will give you another piece of advice, as well.” Mycroft says.

“Be faster, if I want to outrun this stranger.” Sherlock starts walking.

“Correct.”

“So long, Mycroft.”

“Take care, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waits for Mycroft to disconnect the call. And then without looking at the phone, he throws it into the lake.

A small crack, a mild sound, and the burner phone is gone.

 

* * *

 

“What are you going to do?” Anthea asks as Mycroft turns the speakerphone off.

“I don’t have the slightest idea. Do you?” Mycroft sighs.

“What do you think will happen?” Anthea asks in a nonchalant voice, fingers tapping on the blackberry, restlessly. 

“What I think?” Mycroft laughs. “I think that John Watson will die somewhere in a gutter in Eastern Europe and when my brother comes back home I won’t even have any proof to show him because when he is looking at me, he can catch the lies and he will in this case, at least.” Mycroft groans and covers his face with his palms. “It’s not funny, but I can’t help laughing at how out of control this is.”

“What can I do?” Anthea asks with a hint of sadness in her voice and actually looks up from her blackberry, a rare occurrence.

Mycroft looks at her for a moment. And realizes he has no idea, no solid plan, no assurance.

“Tell the agents that they are not doing enough. How can he become invisible?”

“You know why.” Anthea replies.

“Yes.” Mycroft says thoughtfully. “Military career, living with my brother. Dr Watson has learnt his lessons well.”

“I will see what more I can do, Sir.” Anthea stands up and walks out, closing the door almost silently behind her.

Mycroft sits with his face behind his palms and thinks. Again and again. 

When he voiced his concern about the first time he met John Watson, he thought about only two possibilities. That John could either be the making of his brother, or make him worse than ever. Because he knew his own blood. His brother has always been a walking disaster. So a new person, with his own issues, walking into Sherlock’s life could deliver only some predictable outcome. Either he would feed to the recklessness or be a reasoning soul and try to put a restraint to it.

The third possibility never came to mind where John Watson would become his biggest headache. Or the possibility that his stupid brother won’t ever understand about his own heart until the last moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if this story is still interesting. There was a lot less comments on the previous chapter and I was like..okay that's..  
> Well I am just gonna hope that a lot of you guys are waiting till this is finished ;)  
> Lots of love. Hope the weather is fine. My country is having a serious flood situation.   
> Also there is a Kung Fu Panda refernce somehwhere in this chapter (yeah I am weird af but if you know me, you should know that too). Lemme know if you can find it :p


	5. Somewhere along the way

The moon gradually disappears from the sky before starting to reappear again throughout the month. The nights become darker and dull as it continues to fade until there is nothing but the empty, lightless sky.

The earth really misses the moonlight on those days. But it's helpless against nature's wishes. All it can do is wait and watch the sky everyday for a hint of the moon.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock finds that he is feeling almost disappointed. Just after handing Holtz to the police with a bit of pushing from Mycroft, he realizes that he could wait easily. To see if the angel of death (that’s what he calls that person in his head) appears. But unfortunately, what's done is done. And apparently he is getting stupider with every passing day in this neverending run.

“I could wait you know.” Sherlock hisses at the phone, hurriedly walking away from the flat into a dark alley. “I could easily wait for a day or two and maybe...” He pauses, chewing on his lip in contemplation. “I could see the mysterious whoever.”

“Yes, you could wait. But that would mean additional deals going on and you know… that could result in uncertainty.” Mycroft takes in a long breath, letting it gush out into the silence. “I don’t think you took this risk to put things in jeopardy, did you? Timing is essential here.”

“No.” Sherlock answered curtly, taking longer steps towards the main road.

“I knew you would understand.”

And there is that tone, the one he knows too well but Mycroft isn’t aware that he knows. Mycroft is hiding something. Mycroft is giving him unnecessary praises, that’s suspicious.

There is nothing concerning John in this, is there? Mycroft would not dare to hide that much from him. No matter how far Sherlock is.

“How’s… everything? In London?”

“As it should be.” Mycroft says gently. “Everyone in their places.”

Maybe it's just Mycroft’s work making him worried. Everything is not about Sherlock, is it?

“So what am I supposed to do?” He asks, glancing at the man beside him at the bus stand, who is too busy looking at the stock exchange on his tablet computer.

“Meet my man in an hour, reach your destination, sit tight for a while. And then you know what.”

“Yeah.” Sherlock murmurs, “Don’t I.”

“See you in a… month?”

“I guess so.”

“Anything else?” Mycroft asks.

“If I don’t come out of this alive,” which I have a very little chance to, because I am going to be shadowing and then confronting the second best shooter in the world very soon. Sherlock takes a deep breath. “keep you promise.”

“I fully intend to, brother mine.”

* * *

 

_He hates that he doesn’t know more about this Macmullan guy except whatever was on his Facebook profile. Which is way less than enough, but maybe, maybe enough for the job._

_This thing is risky anyway (not that he cares), but not knowing everything about a man who is infamous for having a lot of information, is riskier. He lives in a very crowded city. Too many people. Too much security around. Not enough opportunity._

_But John knows one little useful thing, that Macmullan is gonna be in Nepal for a week, on a job, he doesn't know what job.  But that makes everything worth it. Sharing a room with an insomniac who smokes the whole night. He has been living here for a month and they have never spoken._

_What can go wrong in all of this?_

_He wakes up on the day of the rendezvous, sits and listens to the sweet sound of prayers the whole day. It’s beautiful. Apparently it’s supposed to be festival day. It’s colourful everywhere, a stark contrast to what his insides are. The air is so fresh and he should enjoy it but he simply can't breathe, doesn’t want to._

_Sherlock is lying in the cemetery under a green tree, not breathing. How can he? He is betraying him enough by just living on his own. That's unfair._

_He passes by a temple in the afternoon and someone offers him a tray full of sweets._

_“Please have some.” The young woman smiles at him. “It’s our God’s birthday, a beautiful day.”_

_He goes still for a minute and doesn’t know what to do. The woman, narrows her eyes, still smiling and almost shoves the plate in his direction. That makes John smile. He picks one up and tastes it and it’s heavenly. The woman, Meera says that it’s called a laddoo. She is the liveliest person John has ever seen in his life, even her bright clothing pales in her own aura._

_She talks a lot. Informs John that she works at Harvard, here on leave to join her family. That she’s been in London and it’s lovely. She packs him some more sweets in a paper bag and insists that he eats all of them._

_His heart goes warm and the paper bag in his hand feels like life. He realizes that he hasn't smiled in a while. Does that long even count as just a while? It’s almost an eternity. It’s been too long since he even had a conversation with someone except irritated bar guys. They were mostly one sided._

_Later that night, John watches Ronald coming out of the house while talking with someone. There is one little patch of path where it’s not entirely dark, good for John. He stands beside the road and prays that everything goes smoothly. He waits with bated breath as the other person leaves and it's finally the two of them alone._

_Macmullan stops in his tracks when he hears the sound of the safety catch opening in the dark._

_“Really hoping that is not for me.” He shakes his head. “But it is probably.”_

_“I heard that you are a clever man.” John replies. “Hands over your head.”_

_The man walks closer towards the direction of the sound and the full moon blesses them with its light at that exact moment. John can see him clearly, he looks too ordinary, just like himself._

_“Oh… so you’re… not dead.” The man draws out his words, almost in a teasing manner. And tries to hide his surprise._

_“What?”_

_“Oh come on, Doctor Watson. Do you think I don’t know you?” The man chuckles, fearlessly, as if the Sig Sauer pointed at him is nothing but a child’s plaything. John can feel his own palms sweating. But the man in front of him is nonchalant, not even a shift of a muscle anywhere._

_“We thought you died somewhere. There was no trace of you.” His brows crinkle in confusion. “We thought you died from the grief. The direction you were going back then, it was going to happen at any point.”_

_“You did?”_

_“Yes yes… I am genuinely surprised. Wow.” His eyes go wide, almost mocking in manner. “But we were not wrong, I think.”_

_“What do you mean?” John asks slowly._

_“You are clearing out the weeds, aren’t you?” He raises his brows to indicate their situation. “You are seeking out the people responsible for your partner's death.”_

_There is no point in denying that at this point. So John shakes his head._

_“There is a huge irony in all of this. But I am not allowed to tell.” The man sounds disappointed as if he is not being allowed to tell the punchline of a good joke._

_“What are you talking about?” John asks in agitation._

_“Not allowed at all, but God knows how much I want to.” He chuckles  “I am surprised though. Didn’t know you had it in you. This changes a lot.”_

_“You were wrong then.” John responds through gritted teeth._

_“Obviously, Doctor Watson.” There's a hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice. “What can I do for you then?”_

_“You can tell me about the whereabouts of your boss.”_

_“My boss? Dr Watson, you do remember my boss died just before your boyfriend did.”_

_“I am not talking about Moriarty!” John almost screams._

_“Ohh oh, easy tiger.” Macmullan raises his hands as if to defend himself, the smile never leaves his face, as if there can’t be anything more amusing than a distressed looking man who is avenging an unfair death, pointing a gun at him underneath the beautiful moonlight._

_“Where is Moran?”_

_“Ahh… the other boss.” Ronald shrugs. “Well I honestly don’t know. We never do.”_

_“You are lying!”_

_“Look at me.” He laughs. “I have two guns and a knife with me but I am helpless. You have a gun pointed at me. What’s the point of lying?” He shrugs. “We never know where Moran is or what Moran’s real name is.”_

_John doesn’t know when his hand started shaking._

_“This whole thing is a risk for you. Good old Doctor Watson.” Macmullan makes a disapproving noise. “Boss used to say that you had it in you. None of us believed.”_

_“Your boss might have been right about that.” John snorts._

_“But do you have it in yourself? To do what’s necessary now?”_

_“What is that?” John asks, surprised._

_“If you leave me alive or even lower that gun, you know what will happen, don’t you?” Macmullan asks with a smile._

_“You can’t do anything to me.” John says, standing straight, not giving away that right at that moment, he is very scared._

_“Your… partner thought himself as invincible. Look what that got him into.” The man almost whispers as he looks at John, conspiracy dancing in his eyes. “He is dead, isn’t he?”_

_“What can be worse than this?” Than this non-life I am living?_

_“Painful death.You know… torture, dragging on for days... You don’t really want that.” Macmullan sighs._

_“So what are you asking me to do?” John hopes that his voice is not giving away how shaken he is._

_“You know what. Do it.”_

_John doesn’t reply to that. Just looks in front of him, holding the gun in the tightest grip he can manage._

_“Are you scared, Doctor Watson? Then let me clarify how much scarier it would be.” Macmullan clears his throat. “If you don’t shoot, I will manage to and if you even manage to run away from me, the minute I walk out of here, you will get real famous within the circle. I will make sure of that. Your face will be with everyone, and I will make sure that you get out of Nepal alive, only to be captured by Moran.” He stops for breath, “And Moran, is not someone who you want to meet, trust me. We don’t most of the time. Moran is simply unrelenting.” He smiles. “And the torture… ah, the best part… I should tell you about the time...”_

_John doesn’t know what gets into him and why he closes the distance between the two of them so fast. He sees his own hand hitting Ronald hard on the temple and then Ronald falls on the ground._

_“Oh Doctor Watson, didn’t know you loved a bit of foreplay before you kill.” John can see his hand trying to reach one of his guns in his belt. But before it does, John steps on it, earning a pained scream in return._

_“You,” John jumps on him, and punches the man hard, who is laughing in midst of all this and surprisingly, not even trying to defend himself as expected “killed him.”_

_“I wasn’t even there, Doctor Watson.” The man laughs as if John is not pointing a gun at him from point blank range. “I am just a humble employee.”_

_It doesn’t even take a second. Only a small fraction of a fraction._

_There is a loud noise, a gasp and the smell of gunpowder in the air._

_And a very dead man with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead._

_The tremors that start in his hand, show no signs of stopping ever. He picks up the gun that had fallen from his grip on the ground with a shaky hand. He touches his fingers to his cheek and realizes that he is crying._

_He has never killed a man from point blank range in his life. This must be a new low for him._

_He runs in the cold night. His lungs burn for air, his whole body aches in an unpleasant way. His insides want to crawl out of his mouth. He wants to puke his guts out until there is nothing anywhere._

_Everything for Sherlock, everything._

* * *

 

_He circles around the man slowly, breathing steady all the while. The last ray of the fading sun lights up the beige wall of the room and along with it, the expensive glass decor. The sunshine looks oddly familiar, the shade reminiscent of something forgotten. But that’s such an oxymoron, there is only one sun obviously, it must shine the same._

_“Please don’t hurt me. I have done nothing.” The man whimpers. “I have a family, a wife, two kids.”_

_“Shhh.” He says, one finger pressed on lips and the man shuts up abruptly. Fear clear in his eyes._

_He must look really scary to the eyes of the man. All dressed in black, a ridiculous mask on his face which cost him way too much than it should be.  Mulberry silk or something, the shop boy said, winking at him. Sherlock would appreciate the silk. The stolen moments when he would sometimes feel the fabric of Sherlock’s discarded clothes, made him aware of what Sherlock would like. He would like this fabric._

_He keeps his hand steady and tries to not think about Sherlock._

_The man continues whimpering, unexpected from a man who deals in all things illegal. Museum pieces, jewels, everything pretty and shiny he can get his hands on and everything Moriarty liked him to keep._

_He gestures silently at the iron safe. No alarm or anything. Just a good old fashioned wheel on the front. Probably that’s what confidence looks like. He never thought that someone would come after him in a place like Dresden._

_He points at the laptop, waiting for the man to open it with the password, which he does with shaky fingers. And then he points at the safe._

_“Please take all the jewels you want. Don’t hurt me please.” The man continues blubbering while slowly bringing out the aforementioned objects from his safe._

_John thinks for a few seconds. Then walks up to the man kneeling in front of the safe and gives him a hard blow to the skull, there might be a crack, not his problem. The jewels on the floor, the wad of money, not his concern. He pushes a syringe full of sedatives into his arm for extra measure. Then opens the safe more widely._

_An old friend helped a lot with finding out about this man. John will owe him a dinner if he comes out alive from this. The things he had already, the things in Schneider’s safe and his laptop is enough to give him a lifetime of imprisonment._

_He whistles a melody while walking in the street._

* * *

 

_The voice at the other end of the line startles Mycroft._

_“Michael Schneider.” The voice says slowly._

_“John?” Mycroft asks cautiously. It sounds a bit different but it's definitely John._

_John hangs up on him immediately. Calling back doesn’t give him any leads. It’s a public phone booth._

_There could be a nuclear war somewhere and it would probably give Mycroft less stress. One piece of good news is that John is alive, but for how long, he has no idea._

* * *

 

When he walks up to the front of the tiny flat in Brussels, there is crowd in front of the flat. So he chooses a type from the crowd, the chatty type.

“What happened here?” He asks the guy, carefully.

“Some international criminal was hiding in there for months apparently.”

“And?” His heartbeat is too loud in his ears.

“And he isn’t anymore. Police took him just an hour ago. They are sealing the building.” The man shakes his head wisely, feeling accomplished to enlighten a stranger.

John’s feet feel as heavy as iron as he walks further down the street.

“Hello. You seem like a new face.” The bartender asks with a smile and carefully toned down frown.

“Yes quite new, and will not stay enough to become old.” John replies with a smile, resuming sipping at his beer.

“Passing through then. I know the type.”

“Yes. Just passing through, mate.” John says, taking a sip of the beer to signal the end of the conversation.

He is angry. So much. This is the second time since he began where someone has outrun him.  The first time in Florence, it was at the beginning anway. He knew less. No wonder his timing was bad and nobody was there when they were supposed to be.

But this was foolish. How could he be so wrong at arranging information. Sherlock could determine from a drop of water whether it came from the Niagara. But John is a disgrace, even after spending so much time with him.

Sherlock would know better.

Of course if only Sherlock was alive.

“Hey?” The bartender shakes his hand in front of him. “Lost you there mate. You alright? Looked like you just phased out. You weren’t even breathing.”

“I am alright.” John chugs down the rest of the beer and pays for the drink.

Brussels is quite busy.  But not busy enough to make him forget about why he is there and why is walking down the streets on a busy day in a place where he doesn’t know anyone. Why he is not enjoying the street musician playing a very sweet tune. It's auld lang syne. He can't enjoy it.

Of course Mycroft had a hand at this. It has been months and it’s no news what John’s been doing. And of course muffling his voice didn't help in the phone call. So Mycroft probably has started taking care of things in his own way.

“Holmes brothers, I swear.” John mutters under his breath, tightening his hoodie. “Never letting me rest.”

One of them made his life hell and heaven in all the ways possible. Made him mad in a good way and happy in a completely fucked up way. Took him to such a high that he could not get back from that. And now he is in a city where he has never been. He has killed. Doesn’t matter if involuntarily. None of that matters at all. He is here with blood on his hands. And the worst thing is that if needed, he will kill again. It wouldn’t even compensate if by any magic spell he could revive Moriarty and kill him over and over again. It would still be insatiable. This empty feeling inside him… it will never go away, with whatever he does.

There is one remedy though. Only one. One miracle.

If only Sherlock came back, which is a miracle that’s never going to happen. But something else can.

Because Celeste promised to inform him if she knew anything about the mysterious Moran, which is probably not their real name. But she told him that she will try anyway and there will be an email in his inbox if she succeeds.

He looks at the email again.

An address to a public place in Moscow. Mrs Ashdown (not her real name), veteran of Syria, lives with her husband there and apparently leads a happy life, with the occasional exception where she puts a bullet from a sniper rifle through people’s heads, or when she executed whoever Moriarty wanted her to.

He sits still for a month. Watches her getting groceries from the store, on a walk with her dentist husband. He gets almost bored. She looks like any other person living a happy, boring life. John probably hasn’t seen any better acting than this. He would almost think that Celeste was misinformed if he didn’t see her one day, giving the coldest stare to a woman who bumped her on the street. No one else but a complete psychopath could have that change in their demeanor in such a split second. It looked like she would kill her if she had the opportumity.

Something creeps inside him when he slowly walks into the greenhouse at the back of a very beautiful one storied residence.

It’s fear. He is so scared.

At least he is not sitting in his bed sit or at Baker Street and drinking his weight in whiskey. At least he is not rotting at the bottom of the Thames. At least he has not moved on.

Anything for Sherlock, anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little wip crossed 200 subscriptions and 200 kudos. Thank you so much for that. And thank you for all the nice comments. You guys made my week.  
> As for the name Ashdown, that's a reference from The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes which also inspired Mary's name as shown in Season 4 of Sherlock.  
> This fic is making me so terrified I wear. I keep thinking the storyline is lame and I am not doing the brilliant prompt enough justice haha. But anyway, I hope you liked.  
> Lots of love.


	6. Out of place

A lunar eclipse makes the moon dimmer and vulnerable. It appears less brighter than it’s usual self for hours. A lunar eclipse is like a succubus, sucking the life forces out of the moon. Hindu Mythology says that a demon named Rahu devours the moon during the eclipse because it was jealous of the moon’s beauty.

Earth can’t do anything but silently watch and worry. And almost think that the moon will never be in the sky again.

* * *

 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

John moves his head too fast at the source of the calm and cold voice. It’s coming from somewhere in the darkness that lies in the greenhouse. It’s a soft voice, almost a sing song, far from being threatening. But obviously there is something else in it, something malevolent flowing under it which is enough to make John stop dead in his tracks.

The circumstances are frightening. Not to mention the threat as well.

The voice says danger but the kind he is not attracted to and is not ready for. And he knows who the voice belongs to, and that he is a fool and underestimated his enemy.

Stupid. So stupid.

The woman who walks closer from behind the shadow with the gun in her steady hand is pretty and possesses a very determined face. Her blond hair seems to reflect whatever little light makes its way in the room. Maybe John is seeing things but she is smiling. Years in the army and John can’t remember anyone ever smiling with a gun in their hand while pointing it at a living human being.

 _“People who can smile with a gun in their hand, are not people. Remember that, John.”_ John remembers being told that, along with another hand over his, while sharing a cigarette in between sips of beer. Erik taught him a lot of things. John forgot to apply most of those in his life, and is probably paying for that.

The woman looks very pleased with herself.

She stops a few feet away from John, her body still almost camouflaged by the darkness, or just the darkness of her attire, but her face is clear. John cannot help but notice how her face is devoid of any human emotions.

“Well look who’s here.” She smiles slowly, it would be quite a beautiful one if it wasn't so malicious looking. “Wasn’t expecting Holmes’ sniffer dog first.” She shrugs her shoulders in indifference. “Ain’t disappointed though. You will do fine… For now.”

Her steady eyes scrutinise John constantly, searching for a falter in his expression, most likely. Sniffer dog was definitely supposed to be an insult but John has known worse. He holds the eye contact and waits for her to talk again.

“Did you really think I would not know?” She looks disappointed. “You thought people could shadow me without me knowing about it? Never read the super secret file on me?”

“Yeah… there might have been some miscalculations. This is not exactly my usual job, you know.” John says cautiously, meeting her eyes.

She curls her lips in irritation. “Expected the arrogance of him to walk in here first. That’s a pity.” She motions with her hand to tell John to drop his backpack. And John obeys because there is nothing else to do. Because he is foolish and has walked into an open trap. Funny thing is he is not regretting it at all.

But why she was expecting Mycroft Holmes to walk in there? She can't be that foolish. Her reputation said something else. There is only the reputation John knew about, there was no recent photo anywhere. As much as Moriarty loved to be in the spotlight for as long as he thrived, his right hand has always been the opposite. She has always been in the shadows. Military career and then vanished right off from the face of the earth, until her name came back again in the picture, as the all powerful auxiliary of the more powerful spider.

Now she is closer, John can see the scar over her eye. The scar which is probably more famous than the person carrying it. Tigress is her nickname because she earned it by killing one, with just one knife.

“I know who you are.” John mumbles. “Mary Elizabeth Moran.”

“Of course you do.” She cocks her head proudly.  “I have no doubt in that. Because this,” She points at her eye. “is quite famous. Exceeds my actual reputation.”

“True. But I know your actual reputation as well.” John breathes through his teeth in quiet frustration. “Moriarty’s right hand, veteran of Syria, sharp shooter, manipulator. Always in the shadows, except when you are shooting people.” She smiles at that. “Your name,  probably it’s not even your real name, none of your names are.” John looks sternly into her eyes.

Moran pauses for a second, her face lighting up with pure amusement. Then she starts talking.

“John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart’s Hospital. Bullet in your shoulder, psychosomatic limp in your leg, flatmate, ” A small, all knowing smile appears on her face, “sorry, partner,” she says the word with intentional pressure at the right syllables, “of Sherlock Holmes.” She pauses and adds “Also one correction Dr Watson, one of my names is my real name, but no one knows which one.”

“Are we… having a competition?” John blinks in confusion.

“I thought we were, a memory game, of which one of us can show off.” She gestures with her free hand and looks down at John with utter disdain in her eyes.

John cannot help but let out a chuckle.

“Something funny, Dr Watson?” She narrows her eyes.

John shakes his head, still laughing, “It’s nothing, it's just… never knew that you would be funny. None of your people were.” She smiles again but it doesn’t reach her eyes and her gunned hand definitely doesn’t falter.

“There, there, Dr Watson, I am sure that Holmes won’t like his boyfriend flirting with me. He could kill me you know. He can do that.”

“Mycroft?” John furrows his brows as he processes the sentence. “Why on Earth would I would be affiliated with him, of all people? And neither does he know that I am here with you. So if you just want to kill me...” John shrugs and stares right into the chamber of the gun. “Do it. No one will even care.”

“I’m… not talking about that tweed stuffed bureaucrat.” Her expression slips and John finally catches a hint of confusion on her face. “Are you taking the piss? This stopped being funny some time ago.”

“You said Holmes.” John blinks in confusion.  “There is only one Holmes right now.”

“Oh my God!” A high pitched giggle startles John. Mary is laughing.

“Is that funny? What did I say?”

“You don’t know.” Her gunned hand is surprisingly still steady. “You actually don’t know and you are really here on your own.”

“I don’t know what?”

“Your boyfriend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, isn’t dead, Dr Watson.” She lets the moment settle while she looks pleased with herself. “Oh, this is delightful!”

John realises he stopped thinking just after the slap of words that include ‘isn’t dead’. Of course she is lying. She is manipulative and trying to play with his head before she kills him. But even that little phrase made some sleeping parts of his brain light up. So many fantasies throughout the year, so many things he thought about, what would happen if Sherlock didn’t die, what if he was alive?

He hates his brain at that moment. If only people stopped being so cruel.

“Please don’t make fun of me anymore.” He breathes through his mouth. “You have me at your mercy. You don’t need to.”

“I am not Dr Watson or I would of shot you long ago.” She smiles. “You are fine leverage now, I don’t harm the leverage… well maybe just slightly.” Her smile is all teeth, transforming her face into something feral.

“You are lying.” John tries to reason. But something inside latches to the faint idea that it might be real.

It might be. He has thought about this before.

“So who are you avenging, Dr Watson?” Her question is a stab in his heart, spilling blood so fast that his head goes dizzy.

She moves fast and before John knows it, he is falling to the ground. There is something very hot and painful in his leg.

Maybe this is how he dies.

It's fine. He came this far.

* * *

 

Sherlock gives his face another wash with cold water to recover from the hangover he received after staking out Moran’s whereabouts. The patrons at the pub were lovely, a bit loud, and very much interested in drinks after drinks.

He almost forgot about John for a moment. Almost. He was alert the whole way from the pub to the prehistoric looking flat he was staying in. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. But what he does remember was what he dreamed about.

It was about John, quite surprisingly. Because he hasn’t dreamed about John for some time. It’s as if  Sherlock’s mind wanted to punish him for letting John slip out of his mind for a while, however short the while was. He made a grave mistake. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He should not of gotten drunk with strangers in the pub, he should not lose focus for even a moment, he should not forget for one second that the better he does, the faster he can finish the job, the more precise, the closer the chance to see John, breathe in his familiar scent, feel his body heat walking beside him. As time passes, the feeling becomes tenfold.

So he dreamt about John. A plethora of mismatched incidents. Some real, some never happened, some he wanted to. There was John running behind him, there was John coming out of the shower all fresh and happy. John chewing his dinner with utmost concentration, John crouched over his body on the pavement of Bart’s. John kissing just over his brow, John holding him when he doesn’t even ask for it, can't ask for it.

When he wakes up, his head is killing him, his eyesight not really helping to improve the situation. Mary Moran is living a very non-glamorous life with her dentist husband. Whatever he does, he can’t harm someone who is just a pawn in everything. So he is simply waiting for him to leave town, which he probably will, very soon, if his information is correct.

He lies down for most of the day. The sunlight is particularly painful as well as the loud sounds of the family in the next flat. They’re always fighting, sometimes when Sherlock finally lies down in his bed, he can feel the vibrations from their intense conversations. He doesn’t know how much time passes, he just stares at the ceiling and tries to remember the ceiling of the drawing room in 221b. When his stomach garbles in protest, he drags his unwilling body to the kitchenette and tries to assemble a sandwich. When he can’t find bread, he just eats the ham, drinks a glass of water, lies down again and thinks.

He can feel it inside him, despite the headache and the world trying to kill him, he can feel he is getting nearer to John with every passing day. He doesn’t know how or when, but he will see John soon, and everything will be alright, and John won't hate him. He can’t, obviously.

He wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing like crazy, he ought to change the ringtone, he decides while facing the opposite side to retrieve the phone. He should not bother, but still.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“I have only five minutes.”

“Yes of course.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, “I hope it’s not more than that.”

“I have pressing news.”

“Yes?”

“Quite bad, I am afraid.”

His throat dries in unknown fear. And even before he thinks about it, he blurts out what had been cooking in his head for months.

“It’s about John, isn't it?”

Mycroft stays silent on the other end of the line, which strongly backs up the suspicion.

And he is not ashamed to admit that he can feel his blood turning cold as the gears all click into place.

“It was him all along?” Sherlock knows that he is shouting but he also knows that he doesn’t care.

“I am so sorry.” Mycroft does sound sorry but none of that matters.

“The Sig Sauer? The unmistakable way of working like me. Swift enough to even outrun me? I should have known!” All he wants is to break the phone and burn down everything around him. And kill Mycroft.

“I don’t even know what to say, Sherlock.”

“Say whatever you know.” Sherlock grits his teeth and sits on the floor, impatiently waiting for Mycroft to give him information.

* * *

 

There is a throbbing pain in his head. But that's nothing compared to the excruciating dull ache in his leg that's trying to tear him apart.  Did he die? Is this what death looks like?

John blinks and it doesn't make things any clearer, it possibly can't. It's dark everywhere. And the pain isn't letting him focus.

“Ah, there you are. Almost lost you there. But then again I am never wrong.”

So he is still alive. Not comfortably per se.

“Move your fingers for me.” She commands from nearby.

John does as he is told. Twists his fingers as much as possible through the restraints. Everything has started getting a bit numb.

“That's good. You are doing good.” She coos.

John can see her now.

“You shot me.” He says through his teeth.

“It's just a bullet graze. You’ve had worse than this.”

“You should have killed me.”

“Now where’s the fun in that? You’ve looked worse than this, you know.” She shakes her head in mock sadness.

“Have I?”

“Yeah. The day Holmes jumped from the roof and my boss killed himself, you were my responsibility. And you looked like shit.” She replies nonchalantly.

“What are you talking about?” John asks in confusion.

“It's like talking to a wall.” Mary scoffs impatiently. “Do you even know anything?”

“Tell me. If you don't have immediate plans to kill me.”

“Why do you think your boyfriend jumped?” She quirks an eyebrow.

His heart gets a bit fast at the word again. Boyfriend. Everyone along the way kept mentioning Sherlock as his boyfriend. And he cannot argue. Doesn't want to. Doesn't care to. But mostly because it is fine.

“Because he was burdened with lies. And there was no other way.” He responds slowly, each word cutting deeper into his skin.

“Ah, so naive.” Mary clicks her tongue. “Because if he didn't jump, you would be dead right there. Along with your favourite DI and the landlady.”

“I… I never knew.” The thrumming in his heart cannot be natural but that's the least of his concern. He is in an uncomfortable position and extremely vulnerable. He can smell the fertilizer from where he is lying on his right side on the ground while Moran smokes a cigarette leisurely.

“How could you?” She releases a puff of smoke. “Nobody but I knew, and his brother, and a handful of other souls who helped him. And maybe… I could have killed you anyway or you know, him, right there. But I didn't.”

“I presume that's not out of sympathy? Or were you incapable?” John says in a biting tone.

“Because I like a good game, Dr Watson.”

“So you say. But maybe,” John chuckles, “you are not what you say you are.”

“Keep in mind that you are at my mercy.”

“Just wondering why you're bothering to keep me alive.”

“I’m waiting for your boyfriend to come and rescue his damsel in distress.”

“You are lying.”

“Can you stop being an idiot for once? Why would I bother lying to you?” She makes an annoyed face.

“I don't know. Don't care. He is dead.” He can feel blood trickling down his thigh, coppery tang thick in the air. He will definitely die like this in here, under the watch of a psychopath. It was supposed to end somewhere. Maybe exactly like this.

“Thick skin and a thicker skull.” She sighs comically. “I am so underwhelmed.”

“Just kill me.”

“I will. Not now.”

Maybe he is wrong, maybe it’s just his own heartbeat but he hears something. And obviously she doesn’t. Turns out that having your ear on the ground has some additional benefits.

It’s the sound of footsteps, the lightest possible, and it disappears immediately, leaving him wondering if he even heard it in the first place or if his agonised body is grasping at Mary’s words and trying to conjure up a saviour.

Then there is an unmistakable noise outside. A heavy set of footsteps. John would know that sound anywhere.

He could recognize it even when he had his back turned to the door in their home, when the same footsteps made their way up the staircase. He would know in a heartbeat who was walking towards him at the restaurant when he was trying to pull for the night. He would pretend he was annoyed but he probably didn’t fool Sherlock.

He waited for those footsteps to ascend upon the stairs, night after night, when he sat in his chair, facing the door with a cup of undrinkable tea in his hand. Hours would pass. He would wait and wait and wait and gradually the wait would turn into a mockery of his existence.

Of course this time the sound is loud enough for Mary to pick up on it.

“Ah… the dragon slayer is here. “ She laughs. “Should welcome him properly.” Mary checks her gun and smiles brightly at John.

Of course Sherlock bloody Holmes is here. John can’t argue with that anymore. All he can do is look at the door and wait for somebody to kill him, or to die from blood loss, or if he is lucky, very, very lucky, to be saved by Sherlock Holmes, a dead man.

* * *

 

“Of course John is stupid enough to do that. But how could you let him do that?” Sherlock fists his own hair, making his scalp hurt.

“I told you the decision of not telling him was skewed from the beginning. Sentiment got the better of you, as it got to him. And now look at the mess you’re in.” Mycroft hisses.

“So it’s now my fault? You can’t keep a man in his home safe and it’s my fault?”

“Is he? Just a man?” Mycroft laughs. “Don’t you know what he is?”

Sherlock can't answer that.

“He is just like you. Uncalculated steps and unexpected risk. He is worse than you. He actively seeks risk.” Mycroft spits the words.

“Keep it short. Where is he?”

“Just where you are. One security camera was able to pick him up, quite accidentally. He was headed towards her house.”

“So, is he even alive? Are you telling me this after I have no chance of saving him?”

“Go and find out for yourself.”

“After this is over, I am going to kill you, Mycroft Holmes.” He hangs up and throws the phone in the bed. The soft thump is disappointing to his ears as he calculates his next step.

There isn't much light as he stands outside the greenhouse but he can see her clearly, talking to someone beneath her. He listens for a while and he can hear who. The feeling that rushes through him by just the faint sound of that voice is equally expected and unexpected. His legs almost give up.

She has a gun pointed in front of her. If his plan is faulty, everything he has been working towards will be destroyed within seconds.

He takes a deep breath and starts walking towards the entrance. Someone is going to die tonight, and it can’t be John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. I completely disappeared from my internet life for a few days. Life got in the way..you know..shit happens. Any way, everything is mostly fine now. And the chapter is here. I hope everyone still loves me. Because I love you all.  
> Almost at the end, and I am sad. Fics are like babies haha. The attachment is strong.  
> Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. <3


	7. Cause I built a home

Satellites are supposed to roam around a planet, bound by the gravitational force, in a pre destined path, or pre calculated. They are there to keep wandering. The artificial satellites around earth are not there to stay. They are to observe, keep a close eye, then eventually drift away. They are not there to make an eternal collection. They are temporary, and practically have no impact on the earth. They are, as the name suggests, artificial. Their paths aren’t defined by cosmic energies, or fate or anything. They are not there because they were forever meant to be, they are there because there was a temporary need.

Planets are known to have more than one moon. But not all. For some there is only one.

Like earth, who has only the one moon, meant to stay forever. Meant to give hope and be loyal and meant to be the symbol of love. 

There is only one moon for earth. And that is the eternal truth. Nothing else was ever meant to be.

* * *

 

“Knock knock, Sherlock.” A sweet voice says to him from inside the pitch black that lays in most parts of the greenhouse.

He is probably being stupid. Not probably, most certainly. He is getting ready for a dual with an assassin who is exactly known to be never wrong, well, most of the time.

“You know it’s me.” He says and changes his position instantly. But something inside him tells him that she is not going to kill him like that anyway. She needs him to face her.

“Come into the light?”

“Wouldn't that be a bit… humiliating?”

“Not going to kill you that easy, Holmes. We need to talk.” She pauses and adds. “And you need to see.” The last sentence bears underlying humour with it and Sherlock knows why. Of course she needs him to see John, probably dead by now, or if he is very lucky, barely alive.

He keeps his hand steady as much as possible and tries to breathe because he finds it impossible to do both at once. Not because Mary Moran is standing with a smile and a gun firmly pointed at him. But because John is there, too close and simultaneously so far that Sherlock will probably not be able to touch him in the end.

“Hi there.” He says without missing a heartbeat.

“Hi. You look like crap. Trouble much?” She smiles wide, devoid of humanly warmth.

“Nah.” Sherlock shrugs. “Can’t complain. Excellent hospitality on the way, beautiful welcome party.” He says, vaguely motioning in front of him.

“And a prize at the end.” She steps aside to reveal a lump on the floor, bound feet and bound wrists making it look like a bundled package. But the worst thing is not the ropes, it’s the man himself. Sherlock can’t see enough but he comes to the quick realization that he is seeing more than enough. More than necessary so that his palms are burning cold as ice and everything inside him is trying to scream.

“Aww, look at you. All shocked and concerned for the good doctor.” She giggles. “I have seen that face before you know.” She clicks her tongue. “Now I remember.”

“What face?” Sherlock asks in a reflex. Because conversations are not the priority. Not even the gun he is trying to point at the woman looking at him with cold eyes. Priority is the man crumpled on the floor and the silent plea that the slight movement in the man is from breathing, not a trick his eyes are trying to play with him.

“Your face.”

“What’s wrong with it?” He asks through his teeth.

“Everything about it is deliciously disgusting.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She looks amused. “The agony, the vulnerability. You don’t even know how you look every time. I never get tired of watching it.”

“Really had no idea that my face was that amusing to watch.” Sherlock says, looking straight at her.

“It is, you know. Too much. Ugh.” She makes a face. “Enough for me to not care for a moment that my boss blew his head off. Or when you were trying to blow up an entire swimming pool.” She makes a noise of relief. “Ooh, that was so close.”

“Do you usually talk this much?”

“I do when the subject is touchy. When there is enough to taunt with. Like,” She slightly motions at John. “that guy over there. You can’t even fathom your feelings for him, can you? It’s a pity you didn’t get on with it. The amount of tension around you two.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply to that. There is nothing to say. He looks behind Mary and wishes he could be a bit closer. Just to see John. Because all he can see right now is the top of a head, and an alarming amount of blood pooling slowly beside the body.

“He is alive. For now.” Mary says as if she read his mind. Not that it’s too difficult to read.

“He will be.” Sherlock replies.

“Actually he stopped being alive quite some time ago you know.” She curls her lips.

“What are you talking about?”

“You should have seen his face when I told him, about how you are alive. How you are selfish enough to make him think that you died.” A devilish grin spreads in her lips. “It was mesmerizing to watch.”

“You are sick. You know that?”

Mary doesn’t even register his words, instead she walks closer and keeps talking.

“I thought you loved him. How could you do that to him, Holmes?”

“Shut up, shut up!” Sherlock almost screams. ‘That is none of  your concern.”

“It isn’t? Then what is my concern?”

“Your life.”

“It has never been a concern.” She scoffs. “ There is no one here except you and your nearly dead lackey.”

“Right now, it should be. Do you hear that?”

“I don’t hear anything.” She says confidently but something in her expression falters.

“We could have done it quietly you know.” Sherlock says slowly, “You were hard to track down. But I was going to approach with a negotiation. A little bit of help, erasing your past sins.”

“And a lifetime in prison.” Her face turns stone cold. “Aren’t you forgetting to mention that?”

“That too.”

“I am refusing. I would refuse in any circumstance.”

“Think about your husband.” Sherlock negotiates. “We have eyes on him.”

“Really?” Mary scrunches her nose. “You don’t have anything better? You think I even care?”

“Shouldn't have even mentioned that. My bad.”

“Yeah.”

“So are you ready for prison?”

“No.”

“Then how are you going to avoid that? Because there is no way out of here alive unless you surrender.”

“I won’t. Obviously.” She smiles a little. “Good luck with the dead soldier, Holmes.”

There is a loud noise, a splatter of blood, the smell of gunpowder, and two bodies lying on the ground.

* * *

  
  


“I didn’t think the bullet hit me this hard.” John says with pained breath when Sherlock tries to untie the ropes with shaky hands. “She said it was just a graze. I didn’t think I was gonna die from it. She was lying.”

“John, stay awake, please.” Sherlock slaps John hard on the face and instantly regrets it.

“That hurt.” John weakly protests. “At least they sent you. I knew she was lying. You are not alive. But at least you are here.”

“John. John.” Sherlock doesn’t know at what instant the entire vocabulary he had ever learned culminated in one single word, one syllable, so normal and so plain.

It was from the moment the owner of that name looked into his eyes and offered him his phone. He thought it was just a casual interest, it wasn’t. It was some cosmic shit he will never understand and at this point he doesn’t even care.

_ Don’t die on me. Don’t die on me. _

“I waited for you for so long.” John smiles and closes his eyes. 

_ I love you I love you I love you I love you. _ He doesn’t know if he can even feel John’s pulse or if it’s his own.

Words get lost in tears, love flows like blood, and promises wash away in uncertainty.

Sherlock can’t hear the sound of the footsteps rushing towards him. Or the voice loudly asking him to confirm his identity. Because he can only taste his own tears and the blood on John’s lips. Because he doesn’t know why he is kissing John when John can’t kiss him back. 

Or maybe he knows, maybe the reason is himself, all the bad choices he made, all the wrong paths, because he has always been so damn late to everything.

* * *

 

Sherlock can’t remember when the last time John had looked into his eyes, or when he dared to look into John’s. Because none of that happened in the past one month, the majority of which was of course spent by John trying to regain control of his leg and Sherlock just watching from afar. John requested Mycroft to not let Sherlock interact with him. Telling him that he wasn’t ready yet.

Sherlock expected worse because he was sure that he was going to be alone in the flat and John was going to find a place somewhere else, which was of course logical.

But he is here. He is still using a crutch to walk around the flat. He is still ignoring his physiotherapist’s request to not take the stairs. He is humming and eating his breakfast. 

And he is not acknowledging Sherlock, but the intensity is probably less than how much Sherlock is trying to avoid him.

But at least John looks better now. At least he is not hooked to an IV bag and looking like a human skeleton covered in skin. Sherlock had never seen John like that before and he will probably kill himself before ever seeing him like that again. He had looked at John’s face then because John wasn't looking back and it was easier. He would sit beside his bed and count his breathes and there wasn't anything more peaceful than that.

But if he looks at John now, there is a chance that John will look back and Sherlock doesn’t know what will be in John's eyes, he doesn’t want to know. Not because he has stopped loving John but because there is a chance that John might have stopped loving him.

“You are spending too much time here. I am sure that sofa is not better than your own bed.” Lestrade’s voice startles him awake from a deep sleep. It’s not sleeps’ fault. There is a limit of how long the human body can function without a drop of sleep.

“I am alright, Gavin.”

“No. You are drooling all over the couch and you look awful and you need to talk.” Lestrade says in one breath, rather angrily.

“With whom?” Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade narrows his eyes at that.

“He doesn’t even acknowledge my existence in the flat. It's as if I am a ghost.”

“You are.” Lestrade responds.

“Thanks for the confirmation.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and stands up, limbs protesting at the uncomfortable position he put them into while napping on the couch.

“Listen Sherlock, even you can’t be that dumb, can you?” Lestade sounds worried enough to make Sherlock sigh. Everyone is so worried about him. It isn’t him everyone should be worried about. The man with another bullet wound in his body and a broken and shattered heart, that is the man everyone should be worried about.

“Everyone is awfully critical of my intellect these days. You, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, my all knowing brother.”

“Because you are showing signs of it.”

“Intellectual degradation?” Sherlock scoffs. “Hardly.”

“You are. Doesn’t matter if you don’t accept that.”

“Suggestions?”

“Just talk to him.” Lestrade throws his hands up in frustration. “Because it’s not like me where everything is confirmed with a hug, or random people you can give a scare to and then expect everything is going to be alright.”

“I suppose… yeah.” Sherlock sighs and downs his gaze to look at his own hands. 

“It’s John. It’s… maybe it might sound cliche, but he is your soulmate. And it’s stupid of you if you think he is going to be able to take the betrayal that easy.”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock sighs. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“Don’t say you didn’t betray him. Because you did. Enough to make him forget his ethics and stop caring for himself and mourn for you only then to discover that you are alive and doing better.”

“I wasn’t doing better.”

“Does he know that?”

“No.”

“Try telling him. And if I see you again in my office, I am going to arrest you. Now sod off.”

He does as he is told. Almost.

He doesn’t come back to Lestrade’s office for the next four days. He stays in the flat. Avoids looking at John directly, watches him talking with Mrs Hudson. Watches him getting ready for the walk his physiotherapist suggested. Watches him sitting in the opposite chair and can’t gather the courage to even start a conversation, let alone ask for forgiveness.

But at the end of the fourth day, something changes, when he least expects it.

It’s an usual day. Nothing remotely special about it. Sherlock decides that it's impossible to spend the day being too far from John. So he sits on his chair opposite to John and closes his eyes and tries to not think about John, and almost fails. As if he even tried to succeed. 

A noise wakes him up from his slumber. 

Sherlock opens his eyes to see John standing in front of him with a mug of tea and for a moment or an embarrassing number of seconds, he forgets what to do. What do people do with a cuppa in a situation like this?

“I am pretty sure I made it right. You can take it.” John says, for the first time since he has been back, since they came back.

And for the first time Sherlock dares to look directly into John’s eyes and finds that he doesn't know what lies behind them.

John raises his eyebrow and motions at the mug again and Sherlock takes it, holding it as amateurishly as possible and almost burning himself in the process, resulting in the mug being dropped on the floor. Miraculously, it doesn’t break.

“Sorry. I will just.” Sherlock mumbles and stands up, frantically looking for something to clean up the mess. Maybe not just the tea stain on the carpet, maybe all of it, everything. No duster is big enough to clean two years worth of mess, the heartbreaks, the debris he left behind and didn’t care to look back at properly.

“What are you sorry for?” John asks from behind. “It’s fine. Accidents happen. You were an idiot enough to hold a cup like that.”

“I am sorry. For being that idiot who thought he knew everything well.” Sherlock gathers the courage at last to stand in front of John and doesn’t feel like he will die.

“Are you?” John asks slowly.

And that’s when his legs give up. Before he even realizes, he is on the ground, kneeling and clutching John’s knees as if they are the last thing that can hold him to life,  which is actually true.

And he is crying, crying and not being able to stop and words coming out of his mouth like a volcano and he is hoping, very much hoping that John at least understands a part of it.

“I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry for everything I put you through. I am not worth it. I am not worth of even any forgiveness from you but you need to know that I am sorry.” His whole body has turned into a fragile twig and if John doesn’t let him hold on to him, Sherlock has no idea what he will do or where he will go from there. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes but when he stops and when the sobs have turned into hiccups, there is a soft touch of a hand on his head and a gentle voice trying to soothe him.

“It’s fine.” John says and kneels in front of him.

“No, it’s not.”

“I am saying it is.” A hand on his chin makes him look up front and there are those eyes again, blue and heavy and more sunken than before but it says the same unsaid words. Probably he is wrong, but probably not. “And when I say it is, it has to be fine.”

“I am sorry.”

“You should be.”

“You should be angrier than this.”

“What’s the fun in that?” John says, slowly shuffling closer to Sherlock. “If I give in to that, neither of us will benefit. I will punch you bloody, will probably break your nose and give you a black eye but what will that give me?” A hand rises up to gently push Sherlock’s hair away from in front of his eyes. “I am not supposed to do that. Ever.”

“I deserve those.” Sherlock replies, suppressing the sob that’s threatening to resurface again. He could cry again though. There is no shame in that. “But you shouldn't have done that for me. I left a piece of myself here so that I have something to come back to.”

“What a piece you left.” John laughs.

“Underestimation on my part. Like a lot of things.” Sherlock sighs. “I expected miracles.”

“Do you think I never expected a miracle?” John's voice is gentle and soothing and everything he was missing.

“I know you did. I saw you.” Sherlock lowers his gaze. “I heard you.”

“Was at the cemetery that day, weren’t you?” John chuckles. “Dead man listening to his eulogy. That’s pretty macabre. Although less than pretending to be dead.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer to that.

“Cruel Sherlock, so cruel.” John sighs. “I am not mad though. Not even surprised. There is a lot of things wrong with me.”

“I had to be. So that you could be safe.” Sherlock mumbles and hopes John doesn’t hear because no matter what the reason was, it was not enough of an excuse. “I never got a chance to tell you that.”

“Someone did already.” John replies. “When I was lying bloody on the floor, someone was enlightening me about things no one ever thought to tell me. Only good thing she did.”

“Oh. Her.” Sherlock suppresses an urge to ask what else she told him.

“Yeah.” John sounds distant. “She taunted me a lot and tried to make me understand that you were definitely alive but I wasn’t taking any of it in. She was quite disappointed.”

“I...” Sherlock looks up.

“Let me finish.” John says in an entirely non snapping way. But it’s enough to make him shut up.

“I waited for you.” John says hesitantly. “Not for you I think, but for a miracle of some kind. I woke up day after day and expected you to walk around the flat, some botched up experiment on the table.”

_ I am so sorry. _

“I used to look at the staircase and expect you to walk into the room any minute. And when you didn’t, I wanted to kill myself. You were probably halfway around the world by then.”

_ I will never regain your trust. _

“I love you Sherlock.” There is a hint of sadness in John’s voice that should not be there after the declaration. But there is. And it kills Sherlock inside that the reason is him, and what he did.

“I have loved you for what feels like forever and I have been an idiot to never say that out loud.” 

“I love you too.” Sherlock blurts out and for a tiny moment, he cannot be sure whether he did say it back and out loud. 

“I am well aware of that now.” John smiles. 

And with that sentence, John is suddenly closer.

There is a tiny, almost silent gasp. And lips pressing against Sherlock’s.

It has been one month and twelve days since he had tasted the blood on John’s lips, John doesn’t know that. The memory of it is almost hazy now. Maybe he thought it happened. But probably it was in his head, like a lot of John-related thoughts.

One month and twelve days since he has been technically alive again, and there was another live body close to him, giving back what he always wanted or taking what he always wanted to give.

“You are thinking. I know about what.” John parts his lips enough to mumble the words into Sherlock’s mouth.

“What am I thinking?” 

“If I felt that, in the greenhouse.” A small ghost of a kiss on his lips. “I did. I just confirmed that I wasn’t dreaming.”

“I am not worth it, you know.” Sherlock tries to move away from the closeness, but a hand on his shoulder makes it sure that he can’t. He gives in. “I am not worth a suicide mission. That much suffering, a bullet. Considering how I lied to you.”

“And I thought I was never worth anything good.” John almost crawls in his lap and winces in the process. There is the bullet graze, still healing. But his face glows in… happiness? Is Sherlock that lucky?

“Look at us both, Sherlock Holmes.” John smiles.

“Are you...” Sherlock’s heart beats more than it should be, but  probably not enough. “Happy?”

“I see it that way.” John whispers. “And unless you do something reckless again that is going to jeopardize any chance of that happiness, I will be. We will be.” He smiles a soft smile. “It will take time and patience, but I know things will be alright eventually.”

John entwines his fingers with Sherlock’s and looks at his face, waiting for something. A confirmation? A promise? That Sherlock will behave himself to make sure that the happiness stays and grows and the I can become we and everything can become a balanced equation of an organic co existence? Sherlock can try. He can learn. Anything for John.

“Someone told me that I don’t appreciate you enough.” Sherlock says in a timid voice. 

“You didn’t know before that?” John raises an eyebrow playfully.

“I knew.” Sherlock smiles. “He just confirmed it.”

“Who is he? Should I send him a bouquet of flowers?” John kisses Sherlock’s nose. “Or maybe a severed body part. Depends on what he prefers.”

“He is a lama with extraordinary abilities. And he requires nothing.” Sherlock scoffs. “Body parts will be totally wasted on him.”

“Good to know. “ John chuckles. “What else did he say?”

“He put a stamp on it.” Sherlock says slowly, looking at the mesmerizing way John’s eyes darken and the skim around his eyes crinkles, the delicious way in which one side of his lips quirk up when he is looking at Sherlock with all the love in his eyes. It’s beautiful and it’s worth everything.

“On what?” John asks.

“That you are the only one for me.” Sherlock feels confident enough to put his arms around John. And it feels complete. “And I am the only one for you. Kind of like the earth and the moon.”

“Destined to encircle each other forever. Sounds scary.” John laughs. “Also, the solar system? You know about it then?”

“It isn’t scary, John. At all.” Sherlock buries his face in John shoulder and takes a whiff. Hand sanitizer, mothballs, earl grey, lemon soap, breakfast. Ecstatic. “The solar system is still pointless.”

“Which of us is the planet then?” John hugs him tenderly but so tightly that the world stops for a moment.

“You. Of course.”

_ And I will be the idiot moon. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can never get behind the feeling I have when I end a story. Was this enough. Was this too much? This one is not going to be an exception. I am constantly thinking that I did not do it justice. But I am pretty ure this was the story I wanted to tell. I am not good with too much plotty fics. Mushy romance is my thing (No matter how much unromatic I act irl). There are a lot of things I wanted to leave at your imginations. And I did. I know this was not flawless. And I am ready to accept that. I just wanted to write about two idiots in love. I wanted to write about the fall and the imapct of it had in both of them. But if you do have questions, you know, ask me nicely :p 
> 
> Thank you for your patience with the delay. Thank you for all the support. Thank you for the comments, kudos, subscriptions. All the love. Thank you for loving whatever I write. You have no idea how big an honour that is.
> 
> Lots of love and good wishes for you all. And if you wanna talk, you know where to find me.  
> Love, Ankita.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lou for the flawless editing. Thanks to everyone who made it this far and still do not hate me.  
> If you wanna talk about these idiots come scream with me in [tumblr](http://love-in-mind-palace.tumblr.com)  
> Comments, kudos, incoherent screaming, everything is appreciated here.


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